Archive of Our Own

"Now I know what a ghost is. Unfinished business, that's what."
--Salman Rushdie, The Satanic Verses

***

If Erik is honest with himself, Charles is the reason that he's here. Charles is the reason that he didn't walk out of the CIA facility that first night, the reason he came to the mansion after Shaw's attack on the facility, and most of the reason he returned to the mansion after Cuba.

There are many things he loves about Charles, but right now, this is what he loves best, the ability to curl around him, cover Charles' body with his own so easily, slide into him as if he was meant to do it. At this very moment, even more than Charles' brilliant mind and beautiful eyes and absurd sense of humor and irritatingly noble intentions, Erik loves that they can come together like this, pressing against each other, gasping into each other's mouths.

"Erik," Charles murmurs, his voice hoarse and broken as he tips his head back, panting, displaying the long, pale line of his throat and Erik has to kiss it, mark it, press his lips against Charles' neck and feel his pulse and his ragged breath. He moves his hand from Charles' hip, slides it across his thigh, fingers tantalizingly close to his cock.

Please, please, please, Charles moans, and Erik can't ignore that. Not with that voice in his head and a direct current of lust and desire and affection and arousal flowing into him like someone turned on a tap. He curls his hand around Charles' cock and Charles gasps. His hand flies to Erik's hair, pulling him down for a kiss that's so fast and hard it almost hurts, but in a good way, a sharp, pleasurable way, a way that just increases Erik's desire.

Erik's about to pull Charles to the bed, pin him down against the covers, when they hear the screams.

They both pause for a moment. The mixture of confusion and lust on Charles' face looks almost comical, but Erik knows he can't be much better. Charles closes his eyes and then shoves Erik off of him and tugs his pants back up.

"Something's spooked Raven and Angel," he says, and Erik curses quietly and zips his fly. His turtleneck is abandoned on the floor and easier to pull on than the tangle of Charles' oxford and cardigan. He's out the door with a five second head start, thinking curses loud enough for Charles to hear and fervent enough to cross the language barrier. He passes Ororo and Scott, looking tired and confused, and meets Hank and Moira at the stairs. He takes them two at a time and skids down the hall to the back corridor.

Raven and Alex have their backs to each other and are eyeing the room warily. Angel has taken flight, hovering a good three feet off the ground and spinning slowly. All three of them look shaken.

"What's wrong?" Erik asks, feeling out all the metal in the room, ready to put up a fight if necessary. Behind him, he hears Charles shushing the others. He appears not a moment later, with Moira at his side and the rest of the children trailing behind him.

"Oh thank god," Raven says.

"Is someone here?" Charles asks. A split second and his concern melts into disbelief. "You think you saw a ghost? Really, Raven. Have you been--"

"Charles!" Raven nearly shrieks. "You can't just--"

"You just screamed loud enough to wake the whole house!" Charles insists. "You look as though you're ready to fight off a robber--of course I'm going to read your mind to surmise if there's a threat and of course I'm going to be irate when I find out it's nothing more than a drunken hallucination!"

Erik sniffs. He'd assumed the smell of scotch had been lingering on his clothes from earlier.

"I saw it too!" Angel insists, but she returns to the ground.

"Is this why you insist upon a telepathic blackout between ten and six?" Charles asks. "So you can sneak out without my knowing?"

"No!" Raven says. "Charles--"

"Could someone please explain what the hell is going on?" Erik asks. He raises his voice just enough to catch their attention. The room slips into silence. "Well?" he asks.

"It seems Raven, Alex, and Angel decided to sneak out to see a film, stole a bottle of whiskey from the house, and, upon their return, let the story get to their heads so much that their minds played a trick on them," Charles says, crossing his arms. Erik looks at him critically for the first time since the bedroom. His hair is in a disarray and his shirts are bunched up and untucked. It's very obvious what they were up to before the scream, and he hopes Raven notices and understands that Erik will be exacting revenge.

"You haven't even asked us!" Raven says. The pitch of her voice keeps climbing every time she opens her mouth. "We did see something! It wasn't a trick of the light, Charles, we saw a ghost!"

"We did," Angel agrees. She looks slightly less certain, but her demeanor is generally calmer. Unsettled, yes, but not hysterical. She keeps eyeing the rest of the room, warily, as if waiting for the imaginary spirit to make a reappearance. "We both saw it. We couldn't have hallucinated the same thing, right?"

She has a point, but still. "What did you see?" Erik asks.

"Thank you," Raven says, glaring at her brother. "We saw a ghost."

"A person," Angel says. "The ghost of a person. It was all...grey and misty. I could tell it was a person, but not their features or anything."

"It was behind Alex," Raven says. "We came in and I turned around to ask Alex something and the ghost was right behind him."

"Raven screamed and I turned around," Angel says. "And I saw it too. I screamed and I swear it looked at me and then vanished."

Erik looks at Alex. "Summers?" he asks.

"I didn't see anything," Alex admits. "But I--I felt something weird."

"Weird?" Charles asks.

"I dunno," Alex says. He rubs the back of his neck.

"Like a cold touch?" Raven asks, eyes wide.

"Like a warm touch, actually," Alex says. He rolls his shoulders and looks away. "I don't know."

"But you didn't see anything?" Erik asks.

Alex frowns. He looks at Raven and Angel, his expression guilty, and then shakes his head.

"And what movie did you see?" Charles prompts.

Angel, Alex, and Raven glance at each other.

"Diary of a Madman," Raven mutters. "But I swear, Charles, it wasn't our imaginations, we saw something!"

Charles sighs. Erik rubs his forehead. And the evening had been going so well. A spirited discussion with Moira about firearms, a nice game of chess, a quiet drink followed by the type of kissing that doesn't need to go anywhere in a hurry....

"I'm going back to bed," Erik says. He looks at Charles and thinks, You have fifteen minutes before I give up and go to sleep.

"No!"

Ororo elbows her way out of the throng of children and throws her arms around Erik's legs.

"No, Erik you can't go to bed, you have to kill the ghost!" she cries.

Erik sighs and leans over to lift the child up.

I am going to murder your sister, he thinks in Charles' direction.

Not if I do it first, Charles replies.

"There's no such thing as ghosts, Schatz," he assures the girl. "Raven and Angel and Alex saw a scary movie, but it was made up."

"But they said they saw it here!" Scott says. "What if it was real?"

"What if it was real and it followed them back from the movie?" Jean asks. "What if it's in the house now?"

Ororo bursts into tears.

"I don't want to live in the house with a ghost!" she sobs, wrapping her arms around Erik's neck.

"I'm scared!" Jean says.

"It touched Alex! What if it tries to touch me?" Scott says.

"Guys, calm down," Moira says. She pushes past Hank and kneels down to hug Jean, who looks as close to crying as Ororo is. Scott hovers near her and Ororo won't stop sobbing. At least the troublemakers have the good sense to look guilty. "Jeannie, it's okay. Erik's right, there's no such thing as ghosts. The kids just saw a scary movie and were scared when they got home and saw a shadow or something. It wasn't a ghost."

"It wasn't a shadow!" Raven insists, and Alex punches her shoulder and glares at her. Good. Erik only wishes he'd had a hand free to do it himself. "I mean--"

Alex stalks away from Raven and Angel and puts a hand on Scott's shoulder.

"Hey, buddy, it's okay," he says. "Moira's right, we didn't see anything, okay? There's no such thing as ghosts."

The children don't look nearly as placated by that as Erik would like.

"I'm going back to bed," Hank mutters. "Because I know, scientifically, ghosts don't exist." He turns around and disappears down the hall. Jean and Scott watch him go and seem at least slightly less panicked.

"I can't believe you saw Diary of a Madman without me!" Sean says. "I was the one who told you about that flick!"

He turns and follows Hank in a huff, leaving Moira, Erik, and Charles to deal with the children and the curfew breakers.

"See, honey?" Moira says to Jean, brushing her hair behind her ear. "Hank's the smartest person we know and he knows ghosts don't exist. Alex and Raven and Angel were just being silly."

"Yeah, babe," Angel says. She looks marginally more put together. "I'm sorry if we scared you. I think we just saw a weird light or something."

"Not a ghost?" Scott asks, looking up first at Alex and then at Angel.

"Not a ghost," Raven assures him, though there's an edge of defiance to her. Ororo's cries are tapering off, though her arms are still locked around Erik's neck.

"A ghost won't get us while we sleep?" she asks. She wipes her nose on Erik's shoulder and he restrains himself from commenting.

"Of course not," he says instead. "There are no ghosts, so nothing will get you while you sleep."

"Why don't we all go back to bed?" Moira says. "In the morning, I bet this will seem really silly."

"I agree," Charles says. "We're only scared because we're tired. In the morning, we'll feel much better."

"Sounds good," Raven says, but before she can leave, Charles grabs her arm.

"I'd like a word with the three of you. Moira, if you would be so kind as to help Erik settle the others?"

Moira nods and gets to her feet, urging Scott and Jean down the hall.

I'll be up shortly, Charles tells Erik.

That's what you think, Erik replies, and follows Moira out just as Charles begins his lecture.

"Will you check to make sure there are no ghosts in my room?" Ororo whispers in Erik's ear.

"Of course," Erik says.

So help him, those three are going to pay during training in the morning.

It takes him twenty long minutes to get Ororo settled. He has to inspect every inch of her room for ghosts and reassure her at least a dozen times that ghosts and monsters aren't real. She's half asleep when he slips out and when he finally gets back to his own room, Charles still isn't there. He sheds his clothes (making sure to put his snotty turtleneck straight into the hamper) and crawls under the sheets. He's exhausted. He's going to murder Raven, Angel, and Alex.

Are you finished yet? he asks, rolling over to face the empty side of the bed.

The door opens silently and then clicks closed again.

"Yes," Charles says from behind him. He sounds as tired as Erik feels and none of his clothing makes the hamper as he strips on his path to the bed. He even forgoes his customary pajamas, choosing instead to curl up in his shorts and t-shirt, pulling the blankets over his shoulders and resting his head against Erik's chest.

"Well?" Erik asks.

"They're very sorry, they won't sneak out again, they didn't mean to upset everyone, but they absolutely saw a ghost, they swear," Charles says. He closes his eyes. "A ghost. Honestly. It's like they're children. Raven, at least, should be able to hold her liquor better than that. If she can't, I've done her a great disservice. I gave them extra chores. That's an adequate disciplinary action, isn't it?"

"That combined with the extra laps I'm going to make them run tomorrow," Erik mutters. Charles chuckles and kisses Erik's sternum.

"It's like I've domesticated you," he says.

"Go to sleep, Charles," Erik says, and then takes his own advice as Charles' eyelashes flutter against his chest.

***

Moira takes her coffee out onto the back patio on Saturday morning. It's a nice day for March, warm and bright. She raises her cup in salute when Erik runs by, Raven, Alex, and Angel trailing behind him and looking much less enthused about it. Serves them right. She doubts any of the younger children slept through the night and all of them were already up and bothering Charles by the time Moira joined him in the kitchen. Ghosts. Jesus. It was hard to believe, sometimes, that these were the same kids who saved the world from Sebastian Shaw's dreams of nuclear war.

She finishes her coffee and returns inside just in time to hear Ororo begging Scott, Jean, and Charles to play a game with her.

"Ah, Moira," Charles says. "Care to join us for Chutes and Ladders?"

"Thanks," Moira says, scrambling for an excuse as the memory of her last three hour marathon board game session with the kids floats to the forefront of her mind. "But I was planning on going into town, actually. I need to pick up my mail and a couple other things I need."

"Brilliant," Charles says, "can you take Erik? There are a few things I need as well and some things we need for the house."

"Sure, if he wants," she says, though she knows what Erik wants and what Charles would like Erik to want are frequently two very different things. Either way, Erik will probably join her. In her experience, he likes to save the arguments for things more substantial than grocery trips. "I'm going to go take a shower. I'll meet him in the garage in half an hour?"

"Wonderful, thank you," Charles says. "I'll let him know."

"Charles," Ororo says, "You said you'd play!"

"I know, darling," Charles says. "I'm coming." He offers his hand to Ororo and smiles apologetically at Moira as the young girl pulls him away by the hand.

Moira takes her time getting ready and enjoying the hot water before three disgruntled teens arrive to fight over it. She makes sure she has the right ID to check her PO box and then wanders down to the garage.

It's not a bad life, she thinks as she digs through her purse for her keys. It's not the life she expected, but the CIA wasn't either and that worked out pretty well. She gets a family, a gaggle of children to teach, and Erik and Charles aren't the worst co-workers she's ever had. It's like a particularly complicated marriage.

Without the sex, she thinks ruefully, but that's another matter altogether. She doesn't disparage Erik and Charles their relationship--it's none of her business, really. She knows what the popular opinion about homosexuals is, but they're both smart and Charles is very kind and she wouldn't call either of them deviant. She's met a lot of people in her tenure with the CIA. Charles and Erik are hardly the first with those proclivities. Still, she misses Joe, sometimes. She misses having someone look at her like she hung the moon.

She catches sight of the two of them as she heads out to the garage. She can't hear their conversation, but judging by Erik's disgruntled expression and Charles' large, pleading eyes, she can guess that Charles has just informed Erik that he'll be going into town to run errands. Erik says something that makes Charles pout, then rest his hands against Erik's chest and leans up to kiss him. When they part, Erik looks resigned and Moira can't help her chuckle. Strange to think that this is a man who made it his life mission to kill as many Nazis as possible.

She turns and leaves as Charles pulls out his wallet and passes Erik a wad of bills. She's only at the car for a few minutes before Erik joins her.

"He's really got you wrapped around his little finger, huh?" she says.

"Shut up and drive, MacTaggert," Erik says.

The drive into town is familiar, now. Moira could probably do it in her sleep. Charles, apparently, has a habit of impulse shopping that Erik is trying to temper and the teenagers can't even be trusted to get everything if they're given a list, so the responsibility falls to Moira and Erik most often. Moira doesn't mind. After their disastrous cross-country roadtrip, she finds herself enjoying time with him. They really do have a lot in common, and though she does love Charles and appreciate his company, she finds, sometimes, that it's easier to talk to Erik about certain things. Or not talk about them, as the case may be.

"What's on your list?" Moira asks him.

"Groceries, dish soap, some things for Hank from the hardware store," Erik says.

"Okay," Moira says. "I need to go to the post office and get some gun oil. I may have fabricated the urgency of this trip to get out of playing board games with Charles and the kids."

"I don't blame you," Erik says. "If I knew my choices were a trip into town or board games, I may not have put up a fight."

"You'd have put up a little fight," Moira says. "You like making it look like you don't immediately go along with everything Charles asks of you."

Erik rolls his eyes, but doesn't argue further.

They're well accomplished at these trips. They go to the hardware store first, which is Erik's favorite destination in town.

"It's comforting," he told her once. Nails and screws, hammers and metal sheeting--Moira was not entirely surprised. "Knowing that if something were to happen, I'd have so many weapons at my disposal."

They head to the grocery store next and split the list. Erik doesn't say anything about the chocolate cookies that Moira reappears with and she doesn't mention Charles' favorite candy as they meet to check out. Erik's eyes roam over their groceries and she knows he's calculating the total in their head even though Charles gave him more than enough money. She thinks, no matter how comfortable he gets at the house, no matter how comfortable he gets with Charles, this is one of those habits that he'll never break. It makes her respect him that much more. She still keeps a journal in shorthand out of the same distant, ingrained paranoia.

He hands over the money to the cashier and they head back out to the car, making good time by Moira's watch. She thinks about asking if Erik wants to stop and get a cup of coffee after the post office--it's still cool enough out that the food probably won't go off if they waste another hour in town before heading back to the house--just to make sure they don't get pulled into another fraught game of Chutes and Ladders.

"I don't see why you don't just have your mail sent up to the house," Erik says. He locks the car with a subtle wave of his hand and then joins her in hurrying across the street towards the post office. It's only a block or so away and there's no reason to bring the car around, not when the weather is chilly but fair. "You have it sent to an alias anyway."

"One less step for people trying to find me, I guess," she says with a shrug. "I didn't really think about it. I mean, I suppose I live there now."

"You do," Erik says. "It's your house too."

Moira doesn't think of it as her house. It feels more like college, like dorming with a bunch of strangers. She knows Charles and Erik and the children, yes, but it's still not quite like home. She still feels like she's just biding her time.

She doesn't want to feel that way. She wants to stay for at least the foreseeable future. But something about it just hasn't clicked yet. Something is still missing.

"I'll think about changing it," she says. Erik holds open the door to the post office and gestures her inside. "For now, I'll just get my mail and we can go."

The post office is nearly empty. There's a tall black man in a turtleneck and a trenchcoat by the wall of PO boxes and a young mother and son at the counter. Erik shoves his hands in his pockets and leans against the wall while Moira fishes her key off of her keyring.

There's nothing interesting in her box. Some advertisements, a shop-by-mail catalog, and a postcard from a cousin that somehow got routed through her complicated system of mail forwarding that loops up and down the east coast. She rolls it all up and stashes it in her purse, then closes and locks the box. It's hardly enough mail to even bother forwarding, but she supposes that makes it even less worthy of taking the long trek into town every week or so to collect it.

"San Francisco is nice," the man by the PO boxes says, and it takes Moira a moment to realize she's still holding the postcard in one hand.

"I wouldn't know," she lies. "It looks like Meredith enjoyed it, though."

"People are a little looser," he says. "Which is good and bad, really. Good bars, though. Good other things."

Moira rolls her eyes. "Is that a vague reference to attractive women?" she asks. The man smirks.

"It's a vague reference to illegal substances," he admits. Moira cracks a smile. "But, I'll let you get back to your husband."

Moira stares at him. All she can think of is Joe, dead for years now, and, god, is that a threat, is that--

She feels suddenly stupid. Erik. He means Erik. She has to laugh. She can't stop herself.

"Oh god, I'm sorry," she says. "It's just, he's not my husband. Very much not my husband." She sees, out of the corner of her eye, that Erik has perked up at her discomfort. He's discreetly watching the conversation and she's not above fucking with him. "He's very married to someone who isn't me, actually."

The man smirks. "'Very' married?" he asks, raising his eyebrows.

"The term, I believe, is 'whipped,'" she says. He grins at her and Erik scowls.

"Very funny," Erik says, abandoning the pretense of reading the notices on the wall.

"Are you going to tell me it's not true?" she asks. Erik crosses his arms and says nothing.

"Well, I'm sorry to make the assumption," the man says. "I've just seen you two in town before. Hard to miss you, really. You're a knockout, with all due respect."

Moira feels herself blush. She's honestly a little surprised to have a black man flirting with her so openly. She doesn't mind it--he's definitely attractive and not condescending, which are the first two checkboxes on her mental list of gauging interest in men. Still, the town tends veer towards the conservative and even though there are no Jim Crow laws in New York, that doesn't mean that people don't have their prejudices. Especially in a town where money is everything.

"Uh, a school," she manages to say. "We work at a school. A few miles away. We do supply runs together. The rest of the staff are easily distracted and the kids old enough to run errands can't be trusted."

"It's good to be level-headed," the man says. "Well, I won't keep you. Enjoy your day, Miss...?"

"McDonald," Moira says. Her eyes dart down to make sure the back of the postcard is turned away. Her real name is on it. "Mary McDonald."

"Nice to meet you, Miss McDonald. I'm Nate Foley."

"Nice to meet you as well, Mr. Foley," she says. He bows slightly. Moira doesn't know what to do in response and manages an abortive wave before rushing to join Erik. Her ears are still burning.

"Say nothing," she says.

"I'm not saying anything," Erik says. Not with words, maybe. His face is speaking volumes. She wants to strangle him. It's not that she hasn't been flirted with since Joe, just that usually men are either clearly inept at the whole process and expect her to fall into their arms because they somehow deserve a pretty girlfriend or are far too full of themselves and are looking for a demure piece of arm candy. Moira speaks her mind. She doesn't want to put up with a man's bullshit or be treated as if she should feel honored he chose her.

She didn't get any of those vibes off of Foley. There were another sort of vibe all together--something felt slightly off about their interactions--but he seemed...confident but respectful. She's not used to that.

"Hey!"

Moira's got her hand on the door outside, but she pauses and turns. Erik does as well and, yes, it's definitely them the man behind the counter is waving at.

"Yes?" Erik asks brusquely.

"You two live up at the house on Graymalkin, right? The big one?" he asks.

"Yes," Moira says. "We do. Why?"

The attendant gestures for them to stay where they are and disappears off to the right, out of sight. A moment later, the door next to the counter opens up and the man wheels out a dolly with three large boxes on it. Moira can see the address scribbled on one of them from where they stand. Graymalkin Lane, North Salem, New York.

"It's the only house on that street and all, but we couldn't be sure, you know? No number. No recipient," the attendant says. "They yours?"

Erik and Moira look at each other. She's certainly not having large boxes shipped to the house and she's positive that Erik isn't either. She can't imagine why the children wouldn't put their name on something, but they're not exactly creatures of logic, so it's not out of the realm of possibility.

"They might be for someone else at the school," Moira finally says. "We'll bring them back and see if they belong to anyone and if they don't, we'll drop them back here the next time we're in town."

"Thanks," the attendant says. "Are you parked nearby? They're heavy and I'm afraid I can't let the cart out of the office."

Moira glances at Erik. "Metal," he murmurs to her. He frowns, and his hand twitches at his side. "It's...odd metal, though. It's familiar, but I can't place it." He shakes his head. "I can lift it, though."

"We'll be fine," Moira says to the clerk with a smile.

"There are three of them and only two of you," Foley says from off to her left. "Let me help you out the car, at least. You shouldn't have to make two trips."

"Thanks," Erik says without hesitation, probably just to torture her since he can obviously carry all three without breaking a sweat. "We'd appreciate that."

Moira glares at him. "I hate you," she mouths at him. He has the gall to wink at her. Jesus, if she knew all her teasing about Charles was going to come back to her, she might have been a little kinder about it.

Well, probably not, but still.

Moira takes the smallest box, which is still about twenty pounds. Erik takes the largest and hefts it like it's made of tissue paper. After a moment, Moira's own box gets significantly lighter and she begrudgingly shoots Erik a grateful look. He's frowning again, though, and staring down at the top of the box. She wants to ask him if maybe it's something to do with Cerebro--Hank's been ordering parts galore and she knows how much Erik despises that machine. Foley's still standing there, though, so she keeps quiet as he picks up the last box.

Erik leads the way back out into the street and down the block to where their car is still parked. She almost feels bad that Foley is stuck bearing the brunt of the weight of their phantom boxes, but she can't exactly ask Erik to lighten his load as well, at least not without causing quite a few questions. Foley seems sharp--she doesn't think he'd unquestioningly accept his box abruptly losing several pounds of weight.

Moira places hers on the ground once they reach the car and uses her keys to pop open the trunk. Erik is kind enough to allow Foley to put his box in first, then Moira to lift hers from the ground and slide it in as well. He puts his in last and then closes the trunk. He offers his hand to Foley.

"Thanks," he says, as Foley shakes it.

"Don't mention it," Foley says. "Although, I have to admit, lifting's hungry work. Don't you think so?" He directs that last bit at Moira, who blinks.

"I, uh," she says, caught off guard. "We have to take these back to the school." Then, inexplicably she adds, "But I might be hungry later tonight?"

Foley smiles at her slowly. "I'll probably be hungry then, too," he says. "Dinner, maybe?"

"Sure," she says faintly. "Um, is six good?"

"Perfect," Foley says. "I can pick you up?"

"I'll meet you back here," Moira says. No use getting anyone closer to the school than necessary.

"Great," Foley says. "Valentino's at six? I'll make reservations."

"Yeah, okay," she says. "Um, I'll see you there?"

"Excellent," Foley says. He bows again and then turns and heads back to the post office. Moira stares after him.

"Shut up," she says faintly.

"I still haven't said anything, as it happens," Erik says. "Get in the car. Charles will be wondering where we are."

"Meaning you can't wait to get back and tell him all about this," she says, shaking herself back to her senses. She goes to climb into the driver's seat and scowls to see Erik's already there. He's had a lot of practice starting cars without keys since their rescue-mission-cum-roadtrip. Charles always tsks at it, but Moira thinks it could be useful. Or at least, she usually does, when it's not relegating her to the passenger seat.

She gets into the car and buckles her seatbelt on autopilot. What did she just agree to? Why in the world did she set up a date with a veritable stranger? Sure, it's a little lonely living with a bunch of kids and a couple that's disgustingly in love, but that doesn't mean she should act so irrationally. It doesn't mean she should take up with the first man she meets in the street.

But that wasn't quite all of it, was it? Foley was funny and attractive and didn't treat her like she was stupid or nothing more than a piece of ass. It's increasingly rare, these days. Even Charles, when he first met her, defaulted to terrible pick-up lines about her hair in a paltry attempt to get into her pants. That doesn't mean that she owes a date to someone just because he treats her like a human being. And there was still something about Foley that didn't sit right with her. Like she knew him from somewhere. Like there was something familiar about him.

"You're quiet," Erik says. "That's not a complaint, mind you."

"I'm...thinking," Moira says.

"About your date?" Erik asks.

She shrugs. "About how difficult it would be to avoid him for the rest of my life if I stand him up tonight," she says.

"Why did you agree to a date if you didn't want to go out with him?" Erik asks. "Do you want to go out with him?"

"I don't know," Moira says. "And that's the answer to both of those questions. I don't want to go out with him just because I want to go out with someone, you know?"

"No," Erik says, truthfully.

"It's been a long time since I was on a date," Moira says. "And I don't want--I mean, it's stupid to just go out because I'm lonely."

"I thought that was the point of going out," Erik says. "Do you like him?"

"I don't really know him," Moira says. "I don't dislike him."

"Then I don't see what the problem is," Erik says. "Go out to dinner. If he's unbearable, you never have to see him again. If you enjoy yourself, then that's an evening out away from the house having a good time."

"Well, if you're going to be logical about it," she mutters. "I get a weird vibe off of him. Like...he's not entirely who he says he is."

"Neither are you, Mary McDonald," Erik says. He does have a point. "We've been discussing this far past the point where I lost interest. Go out. Have a good time. Be careful. If your instincts tell you he's trouble, slip away and call one of us. We'll come get you. Not that I doubt you'd be able to take him out yourself, given the chance." He pauses and then glances at her, frowning. "I'm not...ignorant to the fact that you share a house with three children, five teenagers, and a homosexual couple. I imagine that there are things in life that none of us can offer you. I don't want you to go without for our sake." He turns back to the road. "I have some measure of regard for you. Not that I'll ever repeat that, except under duress."

That startles a smile out of Moira. It's probably as close as Erik will ever come to admitting that he cares about her. She knows it took a kidnapping and a five day cross-country manhunt for him to admit his love for Charles. She appreciates it and she's oddly pleased that a man such as Erik has it within him to have any affection for her at all.

"All right," she says. "I will. But if it's terrible, I may spend the rest of our supply runs in disguise, hiding behind you, pretending to be your doting wife. And I warn you now, I'm a bigger nag than Charles."

"Then let's hope he's up to task of entertaining you," Erik says. "I put up with quite enough nagging as it is."

They finish the journey back to the house in silence and, on Moira's part at least, a cautiously pleased anticipation of things to come.

***

Charles sits through two games of Chutes and Ladders. At the start of the third, when he can feel a headache forming right behind his eye, he suggests that maybe the children have some homework to do. When that doesn't work, he invents a crisis in the kitchen and leaves them all with crayons and paper, promising to return with lunch.

He's still tired from the night before. He may have been able to stay up all night and work all day when he was in university, but even though a scant year has passed, he often finds that he doesn't have the energy to teach and interact and plan and experiment and fill out paperwork if his sleep is interrupted. This headache isn't helping, but he tries to ignore it as he retreats to the kitchen and begins making sandwiches for the children.

A great many things are going to change in the next few months. Hank hopes to have Cerebro mark two up and running by the start of May. Recruitment will step up, as Charles would like to officially open the school in the fall. They'll need to spend the summer revitalizing the grounds and possibly hiring more staff, something he hopes to leave Moira in charge of while he and Erik attempt to find more mutants in need of tutelage. The house will become more of a school and less of a family, and while Charles would never deny the chance for all of their kind to learn and grow in an accepting environment, he has to admit that he'll miss being this close to everyone living at the school. He doubts that he'll ever be able to look at Ororo, Jean, and Scott as students rather than his charges, but things will be different, nevertheless.

When he returns with their lunches, the children are in the middle of an intense discussion on methods of scaring away ghosts. He's torn between breaking in and reminding them that there's no such thing and allowing them this method of coping with their fear. Moira and Erik make the decision for him, turning on to the property just as Charles is about to intervene. He leaves the sandwiches on the table and returns to the kitchen to make more. Moira and Erik have been out for two hours now; he's sure they'd like something to eat. Plus, well, it's possible that Charles has been coming up with excuses to skip his turn in the dinner rotation with some frequency. Hopefully making lunch will keep him in their good books long enough to get away with skipping a few more.

Charles follows their minds from the garage into the house. He sees Erik first, and trailing behind Erik are three large boxes and two bags from the hardware store tied to a length of pipe. Erik is carrying two grocery bags, as it Moira, who is taking up the rear.

"Don't worry," Erik says dryly. "We have everything. No need to rush to help."

"Just giving you a chance to work on your fine motor skills," Charles says with a smile. He takes the grocery bags from Erik, who brushes the inside of his wrist during the handoff. Charles smiles at him and Erik smiles in return. It still feels like a gift every time, and Charles would kiss him if Moira wasn't right there. He sends that thought to Erik, who rolls his eyes and then leans over and presses a chaste kiss to Charles' mouth.

"Like she cares," he says and Charles blushes, but doesn't stop himself from leaning in for another kiss.

"I care a little," Moira says. She walks past them and puts her bags on the counter, but Charles can feel that she's genuinely unbothered, which helps curtail his embarrassment.

"I made you lunch," he says.

Behind him, Moira makes a noise that sounds like an aborted laugh.

"I told you," she says, "married."

"No one asked for your input, MacTaggert," Erik says. To Charles he says, "Thank you. This doesn't get you out of dinner prep next week."

Charles looks back and forth between them. There's obviously something that he's missing. "I made you lunch too, Moira," he says. She laughs out loud this time and shakes her head.

"Thanks, Charles," she says, and goes back to unpacking the groceries. Feeling a bit at a loss, Charles turns his attention to the bags to help.

It's not that he doesn't appreciate the overtures of friendship that Moira is making towards Erik--he appreciates them very much. He's long felt that despite their ideological differences, Moira and Erik have more in common than they would ever admit. He's glad to see that they've become closer, that they're willing to embrace their similarities and work together when needed.

And he's glad, too, to see Erik making friends. He knows that Erik's had no one since the war, and Charles is glad to be able to help introduce companionship back into his life. The children, yes, and romance, but friendship is just as important. He's happy Erik's life is normalizing.

He just wishes it didn't leave him feeling so left out.

They finish putting away the groceries and set aside the items from the hardware store for Hank. Erik and Moira sit down to eat their lunch, while Charles regards the three brown boxes that remain.

"And what's this?" he asks.

"They were at the post office," Moira says. "They're addressed up here, but with no number or name. We weren't sure if you or one of the kids ordered anything."

"Well, they're not mine," Charles says. "I think Hank's been ordering supplies for Cerebro, though. They might be his."

Erik absently flicks his wrist and stacks all three boxes by the door to the kitchen, along with the bags from the hardware store. It's almost embarrassing how much Charles delights from the casual use of Erik's power, without fury or purpose, but just because he can. He might look a little besotted as he sits down at the kitchen table next to Erik, but Erik meets his eyes and they share a private smile that makes it worth it.

"Are you going as Mary or Moira?" Erik says after they eat in silence for some time. Charles frowns, but before he can ask for clarification, Moira waves a hand impatiently.

"None of your business," she says. "But Mary, probably. Fewer questions."

"No paper trail," Erik says, and he nods approvingly.

"What--" Charles starts to ask, but, sensing his question, Moira quickly says, "I have a date." She seems almost embarrassed by the fact, and when Erik shoots a smirk in her direction, she scowls at him.

"Well, that's wonderful news!" Charles says. "How exciting! Is it soon?"

"Tonight," Moira says.

A date will get Moira out more, have her socializing, which will be good for her, Charles thinks. It must be lonely, being the only woman, the only human, plus--well, he tries to be subtle with Erik, but it's harder in front of Moira and Raven, knowing that he can be open. Erik doesn't understand why they're hiding in the first place, though Charles tries to explain that it's not hiding, they're just being circumspect.

It's been the source of more than one argument. He doesn't know that they'll ever reach a middle ground, so he just tries to avoid bringing it up if at all possible.

"A gentleman we met at the post office," Erik says. "He claims Moira is so striking that he can't help but notice her when he sees her around town." He smirks again and Moira actually balls up her napkin and throws it at him.

"You just don't know when to quit, do you?" she asks.

"After three thousand miles of listening to your insights into my non-existent relationship, you're due some payback," Erik says.

"After three thousand miles of listening to your snoring--"

"That was less than an hour while I was sleeping in the car--"

"Children, children," Charles says mildly, and they both turn to him looking slightly startled, as if they'd forgotten he was there.

"Anyway," Moira says. "Yes, I'll be going by Mary, yes, the date is tonight, yes, it's with a veritable stranger who might decide to kill me and eat me."

"But an attractive one," Erik notes.

Moira blushes.

"You should go with the accent, too," Erik continues. "The one you used in Vegas. Some men find an exotic accent attractive."

Moira shoots Charles a significant glance, but Erik just raises his eyebrows innocently.

"And by 'some men,' you mean--"

"Yes," Erik says. "If things had gone differently, perhaps."

"If I wasn't a human and you weren't a homosexual, and also my accent was real?" Moira says.

"Exactly," Erik says, and goes back to his lunch.

Moira laughs and returns to her sandwich as well, shaking her head.

Charles sits at the table and stares at them both, feeling remarkably like a third wheel while in conversation in his own kitchen, with his--well, with whatever Erik is to him. He can't say it's a feeling he enjoys.

"Well," he says, when it's clear that neither Erik or Moira are going to continue the conversation. "I have...some things to attend to." They both glance at him, absently, and he feels almost embarrassed. "I'll...see you both for dinner."

"Let us know if you need anything," Moira says as Charles gets up, and he nods as he places his plate in the sink.

He doesn't know what keeps coming over him, the crawling in his stomach as he sits quietly watching Moira and Erik chat. He feels defensive and left out, and he flexes his fingers a few times to try and shake the feeling that his skin is too tight.

He's so busy turning the afternoon over in his mind that he doesn't notice Erik's approach until he can hear him.

"Wait--" Erik says, and Charles turns and forces a neutral smile.

"Yes?" he asks. Erik studies him for a moment and then takes Charles' face between his hands and kisses him.

Charles lets himself relax, lets himself sway up against Erik and linger there for the length of the kiss. Some of the tension in his shoulders unwinds, and when Erik pulls away, Charles doesn't have to force the smile any longer.

"That's all," Erik says. He clears his throat and looks away, but Charles keeps smiling.

"Okay," he says. "I'll see you later."

He feels better as he retreats to his study, though he still can't quite parse why he felt so poorly in the first place.

The rest of the day is eaten up by paperwork and exhaustion. The children use their day off from their studies to explore the grounds and watch television. Erik and Moira discuss firearms training at length, and just mentally buzzing by their conversation gives Charles a headache and turns his disposition quite sour. By the time dinner rolls around, the headache persists and he can barely keep his eyes open. He begs off his customary chess game to turn in early, hoping that ending the day quickly will bring the next that much faster. He'd normally blame the exhaustion on Cerebro, but they've been taking some time off from Cerebro tests so Hank can modify the security system, create a new perimeter fence, and work on some new technology to keep the property secure once students start moving in. It's been a nice break from the headaches he sometimes gets as they modify the Cerebro systems, but it doesn't explain how tired he's been.

Erik is still grading papers when Charles crawls into bed and he's asleep nearly before he hits the light switch.

His mind drifts, as it always does, touching those around him in quick flashes that he won't remember come morning. Alex's pain and Raven's uncertainty and a particular problem that Hank is working on. Erik is carefully checking his English spelling and Jean is reading a story to the other children and then, just as suddenly, Charles is running.

It's getting dark. It's harder than ever to see each step through the trees and undergrowth. The leaves block out enough light as it is, but he's stumbling over branches and vines. He can't slow down, though. He can't let them catch him. He has to keep going, he can't let them take it from him, he has to hold onto it. He clutches it more tightly against his chest, cradles it, and speeds up.

Just a little further. He can't look back. He needs to keep going and just a little further and he'll be--

"Charles? Charles!"

Charles blinks open his eyes.

He's not in the jungle. He's not in his bed, either, which is even more mystifying. He's standing in the main foyer. The lights are off, save for a lamp on the end table, and Moira is holding him by his shoulders.

"Moira?" he asks after a moment. "What's..."

He's not sure what he's asking, so he closes his mouth.

"I just got home," Moira says. "Are you okay? I think you were sleepwalking."

"I don't sleepwalk," Charles says faintly, but he can't deny that he went to sleep in his bed and now he's standing at the bottom of the staircase in his pajamas, hours later, by the looks of it. Moira's make-up is done and she's wearing a very nice dress. "You had a date."

"Yeah, and now I'm home and you're standing in the foyer with bedhead, in your pajamas," Moira says. "I think we can agree that you've been sleepwalking."

"Huh," Charles says. He rubs at his eyes and tries to shake the last of the sleep away. He was dreaming about running, wasn't he? "I wonder what that means, if it's a side effect of telepathy or a regular course of disordered sleeping. I was rather irritable today, I wonder if that has any relevance."

"I don't know," Moira says. "You're okay, though?"

Charles nods quickly.

"I am," he assures her. He's still confused as to the nature of the sleepwalking, but it's a common enough trait--millions of people, he's sure, suffer from it. "How was your date?"

Moira frowns. "Good," she says, after a moment. "He's...funny. Polite, but not too polite, you know? He didn't treat me like I was delicate or stupid and he didn't try to show off. I had a really nice time." She pauses. "Something was off, though, and I can't put my finger on it."

"So you won't be seeing him again?" Charles asks.

Moira looks almost embarrassed. "Uh, actually, we made another date," she admits. "If nothing else, I want to figure out what's bugging me."

"That's fair," Charles says, "but you shouldn't let it stop you from having a good time."

"I'm not," Moira says, "It's just--"

Moira's further thoughts are cut off by a high-pitched shriek from upstairs. Charles shares a panicked look with her before they're both sprinting upstairs, Moira just a step ahead of Charles. By the time they reach the source of the shrieks, Erik is already there. He's holding Ororo, who is still screaming, while Alex looks on. Moments later, Raven, Angel, and Hank join them.

"What's going on?" Charles asks.

"I saw the ghost!" Ororo sobs. "I wanted a drink of water and I came out and I saw the ghost and it was right there, it was right there!"

She points towards the wall, about two feet in front of where Alex is standing, white as a sheet. Alex nods, his eyes wide, his hands shaking. He doesn't speak.

"There's no such thing as ghosts, little one," Erik tries to say, but Ororo just cries louder, her grip around him tightening.

"It was there! It was there and I saw it and it was going to get me!" she insists.

"Alex?" Moira asks.

"I...I..." he says. "There was--"

Charles rubs his forehead. So much for the night passing quickly.

"Erik's right, Ororo," Charles says. "There's no such thing as ghosts. It was a trick of the light, wasn't it?" He looks straight at Alex, daring him to disagree, but Alex manages a weak nod and says nothing more. "And we're all tired and we all want to go back to sleep, don't we?"

Raven and Angel look anything but, but he glares at them as well and they mutter vague acquiescence under their breath before backing off. Charles notices that they go back to the same room, with Raven pulling Hank along and gesturing for Alex to follow, but he'll deal with that in the morning. For now, there's the immediate problem of getting Ororo calmed down and back in bed before she wakes the others.

He's had it with all this talk of ghosts.

What do I do? Erik asks as he pets Ororo's hair.

I don't know, Charles admits. Take her into her room. Try to calm her down. I've had enough of all of this, but it's not her fault. The older children put these ideas into everyone's heads...

Agreed, Erik says, and carries Ororo back into her bedroom, trying to shush her cries.

"I'm going to see if I can't help," he tells Moira. "I hope this didn't ruin your night."

"Nah," Moira says. "I feel worse for everyone who was already in bed." She reaches out and squeezes his wrist. "Have a good night. Let me know if you need anything."

"I will," Charles says. "I'll see you in the morning."

Moira heads towards her room and Charles joins Erik and Ororo for two hours of tears and checking all the corners for ghosts. They look under her bed and tell her stories and assure her over and over again that ghosts aren't real. She finally falls asleep, exhausted, and Charles and Erik are free to return to their room.

"Have I mentioned recently that I'm going to kill all of them?" Erik asks, collapsing into bed.

"We'll have a talk with them all in the morning," Charles assures him. He curls up under the covers and puts his arm around Erik, hoping to finally put the day behind him.

"Where were you?" Erik asks after a moment. Charles opens his eyes again and blinks. "When Ororo woke everyone, I mean. When I woke up, the bed was empty."

"I got up," Charles says. Not a lie, not entirely, but for some reason, he doesn't want to talk about his sleepwalking anymore. "I bumped into Moira downstairs. She was just back from her date and we talked about it a bit before Ororo interrupted."

"Ah," Erik says. He kisses Charles' temple and closes his eyes. "Get back to sleep, then."

"You too," Charles says, but while Erik drops off immediately, Charles finds sleep elusive until the small hours of the night.

***

Erik has to pry Charles' fingers off of his wrist in the morning. It's early--earlier than anyone else in the house deigns to be awake. There was a time when Erik liked this part of the day best, but things have changed. Boisterous family dinners are no longer awkward and overwhelming and he's taken to teaching in a way he never would have imagined he could. Still, there's something to be said about the quiet of the early morning, of an hour to himself, jogging around the house and blocking out everything except the feel of his feet slapping the pavement and his own thoughts.

When he finally loosens Charles' grip, Erik changes into sweats and creeps silently through the slumbering house. He imagines they'll be sleeping in today--the latest nonsense about ghosts had them up past three and when he and Charles finally got to bed, the teenagers were still locked away in Raven's room. They need to have a conversation with the teens and maybe a seperate one with the children--the silly games and stories need to stop. Life is about to get turbulent enough without having to worry about the children losing sleep and acting foolishly over nothing.

He thinks about it as he runs, the scenery nothing more than a blur. It's a habit he'd rather not keep falling into; regardless of how secure the mansion is and how many times Charles assures him they're safe, he shouldn't allow himself to become complacent. For the moment, now, he's too tired to help it. He focuses on what they can do, what they can say, what punishments they can line up, what threats will work, and how to handle the younger ones. He's so distracted that he almost misses the open windows.

He slows to a trot when he does notice them. He's on the far wing of the house, the one that's stayed draped in dust cloths. They don't use it and there's no need for the kids to be there and there's certainly no need for them to be opening windows and leaving them that way. It's irresponsible and it's dangerous and Erik finds himself alternately fuming at them and fuming at himself for caring so much until he's slowing for his cool down and then trotting into the kitchen.

Charles is already there, reading the newspaper and brewing coffee and he greets Erik with a smile and a kiss. Erik chases the kiss with another, sighing the last of his frustrations into Charles' mouth.

"You could have slept for a bit longer," Erik says. He can't abide by laziness, normally, but he's embarrassingly fond of the sight of sleeping Charles and he knows that Charles is happier and more agreeable when he's actually gotten a full night's sleep. He'd been sleepless even before the children's hysterics, despite going to bed early, but he seems cheerful enough for the moment, smiling wryly at Erik and kissing him again.

"It's fine," Charles says. "You woke me when you left and I couldn't manage to turn my mind off again. A few cups of coffee and no one will know the difference. If they even make it down before noon."

"Oh, I'll get them out of bed before noon," Erik mutters. "I've lost my patience for these games."

Charles gently taps Erik's cheek to regain his attention. "No, no, no," he says, his voice pitched deliberately lower. "I think you're overlooking a significant benefit to this situation."

Erik looks down at Charles, closer now that he was a moment ago, and smiles.

"Maybe I am," he admits, and leans in for another kiss. He always has an excess of adrenaline after running--this is an acceptable way to burn it off. Better than most, even.

He hoists Charles up onto the counter, kissing the indignant yelp from his lips and sliding neatly between his legs. Charles is taller than him like this, and Erik appreciates the novelty of having to look up, of Charles bearing down on him, tipping Erik's head back as he greedily demands more from Erik's mouth. Erik would be happy to spend all morning like this, all day. There are few things Erik loves more than the feeling of Charles' hands in his hair, tugging Erik close to take what he wants. It frightens him, sometimes, the knowledge that he'd wave away all other responsibilities to stay in bed with Charles all day, if only Charles asked it of him.

That's not to be today, however. Before Erik can suggest a change in venue, Moira staggers into the kitchen, wrapped in a dressing gown.

"Don't stop kissing on my account," she says. "I won't even be able to open my eyes until the second cup of coffee."

Erik is satisfied to take her at her word, but Charles nudges him away and then hops back down to the ground.

"Sorry about that," he says.

"Your house," Moira says. "I don't care. Please stop talking to me." She cradles a mug of coffee close against her and takes a seat at the table. Erik shrugs and pours his own, and before long all three of them are eating breakfast and picking through the newspaper. Without Charles' lovely mouth to distract him (well, any more than usual), Erik's mind returns to his morning run. He has the decency to wait until Moira is starting a third cup of coffee.

"We need to have a conversation with the children this morning," he says. "This ghost business has gone on long enough. We can't allow them to continue to behave so irresponsibly, especially if we're going to be bringing in new students."

"Mm," Moira says. She swallows her mouthful of coffee. "I agree. If we let them keep at it, it's just going to get worse."

"They're just stories," Charles says. "Obviously, I mean. They're alone in this big house which is, admittedly, frightening. They're scared and lonely and probably missing their old lives a little, so they're projecting." He pauses and adds, "Though it has gotten out of hand and it's probably time to have a discussion with them about it. We can't spend every night getting pulled out of bed by a hysterical child."

"They're getting sloppy," Erik says. "Irresponsible. Lazy. They were ready to face off against an army five months ago. Now they're sneaking out, scaring the children, tromping through the house without a care. Did you know they've been in the other wing? They left the downstairs windows open. I saw them on my run. Anyone could have wandered in during the night."

"Well," Charles says, "in truth, anyone could wander in any night. That's why we have Hank working on security, isn't it? If they broke windows on that side of the house, we'd never hear it."

"It's the principle of the thing," Moira says, and Erik nods in agreement. An odd look crosses Charles' face, but he's nodding as well after a moment.

"You're right," Charles says. "Perhaps when they come down for breakfast we should have a discussion about leadership and personal responsibility."

"And remind them that if they keep behaving this way, Erik will make them run more laps," Moira adds. Erik quite likes her cruel streak. It makes up, he thinks, for Charles' softer side.

Erik disappears for his shower and by the time he's back downstairs, Hank, Jean, Scott, and Ororo are at the table and Angel is frying up a pan of eggs and another of potatoes. Erik brushes his thumb against the nape of Charles' neck as he walks by and reclaims his earlier seat, as Raven and Alex stumble in behind him. It's not long until Sean joins him and all of the children are eating, though more subdued than usual.

Let them eat, Charles says, and Erik is willing to hold out until they're done, right up until Ororo sniffles and crawls onto Erik's lap, half her eggs still on the plate.

"Ghosts can't get you in the daytime, right?" she asks, and the silverware shakes.

"Erik," Charles says warningly, but Erik's had enough.

"All of you," he snaps. "This is the last time we will address this subject in this house." They all stop and stare at him. Sean's still leaning over his plate, mouth half open to catch the forkful of egg he's holding in the air. "There are no such thing as ghosts. There are no ghosts in this house. The fact that you continue to act so childishly--"

Raven throws her fork down on her plate.

"Raven!" Charles snaps.

"No!" Raven says. "I'm sick of being treated like a little kid! We were prepared to to be killed to stop a war with people who wanted us dead in the first place! We trained and we went to battle and we're allowed to have fun sometimes, okay? We're not children and we're not seeing things! There was something there!"

"There was nothing there," Charles says, "because you can't see something that doesn't exist!"

"If people who can fly and shoot lasers out of their body could exist, how come ghosts can't?" Sean asks. "My Mamo believed in all that stuff--spirits, brownies, angels--and she was the only one who knew about my powers, who didn't just treat me like a freak. Maybe she was on to something."

"No, no, no," Charles says. "Our abilities have grounding in science. There's evidence of them in our genetic make-up. They're not conjecture and folklore. There's no evidence that these things exist--"

"Except for the fact that we saw them," Angel says. Erik grits his teeth. He was really counting on her to show some sense, especially because things are still sometimes strained between her and the other children. He'd hoped she wouldn't be so easily swayed to their side. "We saw something. We're not just making it up."

"I saw it!" Ororo shouts. "I saw it last night, it was in the hallway, I saw the ghost! It's really real!" She's shaking in Erik's arms and he has to put a great deal of concentration into not bringing all the metals in the walls down around them.

"It was there!" adds Jean, though, as far as Erik knows, she's not actually seen the ghost herself. Nor has Scott, who's nodding along eagerly.

"The professor and Erik are right," Hank says, the sole voice of reason. "Ghosts are undocumented and scientifically implausible."

"Implausible, not impossible!" Raven says, standing and pointing at Hank in triumph.

"I've learned it's best not to rule anything out offhand," Hank says. "That doesn't mean it's true, it just means I've not properly researched it enough to make a blanket statement. If ghosts existed, there would be more evidence of it."

"Maybe all the evidence is in stories!" Sean says. "Legends and stuff. But people don't believe it because--"

Moira slams her fist down on the table. Everyone quiets.

"There is," she says, with more calm than Erik is feeling, "no such thing as ghosts. I don't care what your grandmother says, Sean, I don't care what you thought you saw in the dark while you were keyed up. Ghosts. Do not. Exist. The more you shout, the more upset you get, the more your mind is eager to turn every shadow into a spectre."

"Exactly!" Charles says. "I don't want to hear any more about it. I don't want you to keep filling each other's heads with stories."

"They're not stories!" Raven shouts. "God, you're always like this--why are you always like this? You don't know everything, Charles! You can't spend your life dismissing me out of hand because you think you're smarter than me! I know what I saw!"

"And I know what you're like when you've been drinking!"

Erik steps in before it can become an all-out sibling brawl. He already has one child near tears--he's not sure he can handle Raven and Charles shouting and sobbing at each other as well.

"It's not just the ghost nonsense," he says. "You need to take--" How had Charles phrased it? "--some personal responsibility for this place. If you want to be treated like adults, you need to act like it. We're not your maids and you can't count on us to clean up after you. You can't just leave windows open--anyone could get in and we'd never know it. What if it had rained last night, hm?"

None of the children respond. They all look bewildered.

"What are you talking about?" Alex finally asks. His quiet during the ghost debate unnerved Erik slightly. He'd worn such a broken expression, and Erik has no idea why.

"The windows in the far wing," Erik says. "There's no reason to be over there as it is--there's plenty of room on this side of the house. But if you're going to be messing around, at least have the decency to clean up after yourselves."

Another lingering silence.

"I can't speak for everyone, but I haven't been in that wing," Hank finally says, which means nothing--while Hank can be harangued into some of the teens' shenanigans, he's slowly taking on more authority and responsibility.

"I haven't either," Raven says. "That was--" She glances at Charles. "It's somewhere I avoid."

"Isn't it just a bunch of furniture in sheets and stuff?" Sean asks. "I haven't been over there since Raven gave us the tour that first day."

"Me either," Alex puts in, and Angel nods. The windows are a bit too high for the younger children to unlatch them unassisted, but they're all shaking their heads as well.

"Someone was over there," Erik says. "It wasn't Charles or Moira or me. It wasn't a ghost." He sneers the last word. Raven glares at him.

"Well, it wasn't any of us," she says.

Something about her expression hints of truth beyond her anger. Their confusion earlier was genuine. Erik considers this. He catches Moira's eye and hopes to convey this to her, and she nods slowly in agreement.

"Maybe we should go have a look?" Moira suggests.

"I'll look," Erik says, only partially because he fears what he'll do if he continues to argue with the children. "You stay here."

"I'm coming with you," Charles says. There's something unreadable in his expression as he gets to his feet and something in his tone that brooks no arguments. Not that Erik would want to appear divided in front of the children, not during an argument. He rises as well, passing Ororo off to Moira, and marches off towards the far wing, Charles a few steps behind him.

Once they're out of the kitchen, he slows to match Charles' pace.

"Well, that got out of hand more quickly than I expected," he says. Charles nods, but he doesn't speak. His expression is strained. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Charles says. He steps closer and takes Erik's hand. "I just didn't get much sleep last night. It's fine."

It's not fine, but Erik doesn't press. He doesn't quite know how to. It's hard to navigate some of these ups and downs, to decipher when Charles wants to talk and when he wants to be left alone versus when Charles should talk and when he's suffering needlessly in silence.

He squeezes Charles' hand and doesn't ask anything further. Sometimes these things are best discussed under the illusion of privacy that late night provides.

It's strange, watching Charles watch the house. He knows that growing up here was not the luxurious fantasy that one might think upon seeing the house for the first time. He knows that it wasn't happy, not really, though there were moments of happiness. He's never asked for the details, though he's absorbed and stored away everything that Raven and Charles have let slip so far. He's gleaned that Charles' father died before Raven came to stay with him and that Charles' mother remarried a year or two later. He's inferred that it wasn't a happy marriage and that the man and the son he brought with him were not particularly nice, but he doesn't know details. He doesn't know that he wants to know them.

But it explains, at least, why Charles looks at certain rooms as if they're foreign lands, as if he's surprised by what they hold, as if he's never seen them before. There's a fixed expression on his face when they wander through particular areas, one that's slightly different, as if he has seen this place before and wishes he hasn't.

That's the look he has now, as they enter the far wing of the house. His hand is sweaty in Erik's own, but Erik doesn't let go.

He leads them down the corridor where he'd spied the open windows, ready for another rant about punishments and responsibility, but the words die on his lips.

The windows are closed.

"Where are the open windows?" Charles asks.

"I must have gotten turned around," Erik says, though the niggling fear in his gut tells him it's not true, he never gets turned around. "They were over the rose bushes."

Charles uses his free hand to point at the windows along the wall.

"That would be those," he says. He releases Erik's hand and approaches the windows, inspecting them. Erik can tell from here that they're locked.

"They were open," he says. "I know they were open."

"I believe you," Charles says, and before Erik can snap that he doesn't need Charles' empty assurances, Charles swipes a finger across the windowsill and holds it up. It takes Erik a moment to recognize that Charles is illustrating that the windowsill is clean of dust.

"Maybe whichever one did it realized their error and came back to fix it," Charles says.

Erik examines the windows up close, one at a time. They're all shut and locked. Something isn't right. He turns around and scans the area, looking for anything else amiss, and zeros in on the elaborately carved doorknob on the closest door. There's a large dimple in the side, as if it had been crushed. He crosses the corridor quickly to examine the knob, then pushes open the door. The room behind it is one of many bedrooms, still draped in sheets. A cloud of dust floats off the carpet when Erik steps on it.

"Was that doorknob always like that?" he asks.

"I...I don't know," Charles says. "We didn't spend much time on this side of the house when I last lived here." The words are clipped. Erik last saw this room when Charles was missing. He searched it like he searched all the rooms, but they all blurred together by the end of the night, remarkable only in that none of them contained the one thing he was looking for. Some of the sheets are uneven and out of sorts. Did he leave them that way? He was frantic by the end. He didn't know what he would do if he couldn't find Charles. He couldn't fathom it.

He shivers in memory and shakes his head clear. There's still something off about this. He's usually meticulous about moving through rooms and leaving them exact. It's second nature, now. It's possible that in his haste and fear, he'd left this room undone, but he can't be positive.

"Can you do a sweep of the grounds?" he asks Charles. "Make sure there's no one else here?"

"I already have, when the children said they hadn't been out this way," Charles says. "There wasn't anyone." When he turns to Erik and catches his expression, he adds, "But I can do another."

He closes his eyes for five long seconds. When he opens them again, he shrugs.

"There's nothing," he says. "The children are still upset, Moira is frustrated and turning her date over in her head, and there is something concerning you, but you don't know what it is." He reaches out and brushes his fingers against the back of Erik's hand and Erik rolls his shoulders to release some of the tension there.

"It's nothing," he says, though his instincts are still on high alert. "I just--" He stops abruptly and turns back towards the bedroom, going over the image in his mind. He crosses to the bed with the rucked up sheet and--yes. There's a cardboard box beneath it. It's not covered in dust and it's far too new to have been in the room since Charles' childhood. He holds it up to Charles, scowling.

"You're right," he says. "It was obviously one of the children. Aren't these the same boxes Moira and I brought back from the post office?"

Charles inspects the box and shrugs.

"It's possible," he says. "They were quite unremarkable. Do you remember what was inside of them?"

"Something metal," Erik says. "An unusual alloy. I assumed it was for Hank."

"Maybe it was," Charles says. "Perhaps we should talk to him before we point any specific fingers. You know what he gets like when he's working on a project. He could have simply forgotten about the windows."

"Perhaps," Erik says, though Charles' admittedly logical solution doesn't do much for the angry adrenaline still rushing through his system. "Either way, I don't think it's out of line to remind them to be more mature given everything else going on."

"I don't think so either," Charles agrees and takes his hand again. "Come on. Let's get back."

He holds it all the way back to the kitchen, projecting a mild relief, probably without even realizing it. Erik tries to focus on it and soak it up, hoping to dispel the last of his lingering fears that something isn't right.

***

Dinner is strained.

Moira's not surprised. Whatever Erik and Charles found in the far wing (nothing, Charles had assured her, the windows were closed, there were some boxes, Charles was going to talk to Hank about it), it amped up Erik's lecture upon their return. She thought Raven was going to actually storm out at one point, but she stayed put and held her head high, glaring murderously at him all the while. The teens had dissipated after the argument, stomping off on their own, leaving the adults and younger children in the kitchen. Ororo refused to go anywhere without Moira, Erik, or Charles, still insisting that the ghost was going to come for her, leaving them trading her off all day in order to get a break and tackle their own tasks.

So yes, by the time they sit down for dinner, the atmosphere is strained. Charles has been oddly quiet and contained for most of the day and she can tell that Erik's not done much to help. He spends a lot of time looking at Charles as if trying to piece out how to proceed, but as far as she's seen, he hasn't actually proceeded yet. Raven won't speak to Charles or Erik, but rather than childishly make it known, she just goes out of her way to avoid directly addressing them, going so far as to forego dressing on her salad to keep from asking Charles to pass it her way.

All of the tension is giving Moira a headache. This was not what she signed up for when she agreed to stay on at Mutant School.

The upside is that she hasn't had time to think about her date with Nate too closely. It was... nice. He works as a night security guard at the bank in town, from eleven at night to six am, a job which he claims is incredibly boring but gives him time to catch up on his reading. He was fun and smart and seemed genuinely interested in her made-up stories about teaching. He laughed at her jokes and wasn't startled when she laughed at his. He was... not mean, but his humor had the sort of sarcastic edge that she likes. He didn't treat her like she was stupid or arm candy.

It was a good time. Which is why she's hesitating in thinking too hard about what, exactly, was giving her bad vibes about the whole thing.

His stories were a little too practiced. Which could just mean that he tells the same stories over and over again, or could mean that they're entirely fictional. And not fictional in the way they would be if he were trying to impress her, fictional in the way that her stories are fictional. Pretty lies to cover something secret and darker.

It could mean anything. It could mean absolutely nothing. But she's been thinking about it, regardless.

Jean and Alex clear the table, Jean carefully stacking the dishes in Alex's arms. They disappear into the kitchen and return a few moments later. It's Moira's night to wash up. Great. More time to think.

"You know," Charles says, and his words are almost startling after the mostly silent dinner, "I do think it's getting warm enough to open the upper balconies."

There's a flicker of interest from Raven, who glances over at him before returning her gaze quickly to her plate.

Moira takes the bait when no one else does.

"What's on the upper balconies?" she asks.

"Oh, they're beautiful," Charles says. "They're large and go nearly all the way across one side of the building. They're perfect for stargazing this time of year."

Angel looks up, a spark of interest moving across her face. So do Jean and Scott. It doesn't escape Charles' attention, and he latches onto it, adding, "We can get some cocoa and some blankets and go tonight, if you'd like."

A quiet murmur passes between the children. They look at each other and then look at Raven, who looks at all of them and then sighs.

"Okay," she says to Charles. "That sounds fun. It's been a while."

It breaks the tension between the rest of the children, who start to chatter quietly amongst themselves. Raven and Charles share a long, significant look, before Charles stands up.

"I'll go grab some blankets and the telescopes," he says. "Erik, would you mind helping?"

"Uh, I told Moira I'd... help her with the dishes," he says. Well, that's a lie. "I'll be up soon, though."

Charles frowns and then nods. He's not happy, though. He wears his emotions so baldly--she wonders if it's a side-effect of telepathy.

"Okay," he says. "I'll see you then."

Moira waits until he walks away towards the study to shoot Erik a look.

"Dishes?" she asks.

"Let's," Erik says.

Erik walks right to the sink and turns on the hot water. While Moira is more than happy to let him take a night of dishes from her, she cuts him off at the pass.

"What's wrong?" she asks.

"I don't know," Erik says. "Have you noticed...Charles behaving...oddly?"

Moira shrugs. "Not any more oddly than he normally behaves. I mean, sleepwalking aside."

Erik narrows his eyes and frowns.

"Sleepwalking?"

Now that is interesting. And slightly worrying, come to think of it, given the way Charles and Erik seem to be around each other.

"Yeah," Moira says. "When I got back from my date last night, he was in the foyer. He'd sleepwalked downstairs. I woke him up and then Ororo started screaming."

"He didn't mention," Erik says, still frowning.

"Well, he probably didn't want to worry you," she says, which might be true. "People sleepwalk all the time, especially people who are under as much stress as Charles. Between the plans for renovation and opening the school, the tests with the Cerebro prototype, the paperwork from the state, plus the whole teaching thing--he's got his hands full. So do you, for that matter, and he probably thought you didn't need one more thing bugging you."

Erik doesn't look convinced. The muscles in his jaw twitch and Moira thinks that if he was anyone else, he would have sighed long and hard.

"There are times--I don't know what to do for him or what to say," he admits. His voice is pitched low, like a secret, and Moira spends a moment in awe of the fact that she's the one he trusts with it. They've come a long way.

"Yeah, welcome to relationships," she says. "None of us know what to do or say. You just need to do or say something. You get credit for effort. You don't get credit for hovering, waiting for divine intervention."

"I'd be waiting an awfully long time," he says.

"I know you're not a romantic," she says. "I'm not either, so understand that when I say 'Charles is grossly in love with you,' I mean it. You don't have to try nearly as hard as you think you do. You don't have to be perfect."

Erik looks utterly miserable, like his words are betraying him, as he says, "But I want to."

Oh god, it's really nauseatingly cute.

"Romance is making you soft, Lehnsherr," she says. "Man up and ask him what's wrong. If nothing else, go up there and hold his hand in the dark."

"Would he like that?" Erik asks skeptically.

"He'll like that you've thought to do it," Moira says. "Now leave me alone and go do deviant things in the dark."

Erik shoots her a look that lets her know what he thinks of that, as if she didn't say it specifically to get a rise out of him. He leaves, though, and when the door swings shut behind him, she sighs.

Helping grumpy Nazi-hunting homosexuals sort out their feelings while washing up after teenagers. That's what her life has become.

It could be worse, she supposes. She could still be filing for the CIA.

Moira takes her time in doing the washing up and boxing up the leftovers. While it might be nice to spend some time stargazing, it's even nicer to have time to herself. Rarer, too--she can stargaze any clear night. The same can't be said for her ability to hear herself think.

She's just wiping down the counters, though, when she hears the now familiar rumble of feet on the steps. Voices, too, but quieter, and she glances at the clock with a frown. They've barely been gone twenty-minutes--they can't be done yet. But it's certainly not ghosts, and before she can investigate further, the kitchen door swings open in the path of a murderous Erik.

"That was faster than I thought it would be," Moira says as Erik stalks back into the kitchen. "Did it start to rain or something?"

"Or something," Erik mutters. "They were jumping at every noise, every shadow. Charles could hardly get a sentence out between their shrieks. It was pointless. And now they've gone and given him a headache, so it's really just a matter of how many extra laps they'll be running tomorrow morning."

Moira peers out of the open kitchen door. Sean and Raven are standing in the hall talking quietly, but Charles is nowhere in sight.

"He went to bed," Erik says, as if he's the telepath. "Between the headache and the general... oddness... I thought it best. The fact that he was quick to agree is probably the most damning evidence that something is wrong."

She nods. Charles is quick to shoulder everyone else's vulnerabilities, to coax them all into opening up and asking for help when they need it, but he can't abide weakness in himself, or at least the things he considers weaknesses. Failures. To willingly be shuffled into bed when it's barely nine o'clock, he must be exhausted. This is two nights in a row, isn't it?

"Maybe he's coming down with something," she says. "Flu's going around, I hear. Exhaustion's the first sign."

Erik nods and turns to the stove, firing up the kettle.

"I told him I'd make him some tea and then join him," Erik says.

"See?" Moira says. "Making an effort. Doing something to help. Congratulations, Erik, you're learning."

"I'm not doing it for you," Erik says stiffly.

"I certainly hope not," she says. "Anyway, I won't keep you. Go on. I'll shout at them a little and make sure everyone gets to bed."

"Thanks," Erik mutters. He doesn't look at her, and Moira just shakes her head as he taps the side of the kettle to make it heat faster. She watches him fix the tea precisely, adding just enough honey, before taking the cup carefully between his hands and disappearing through the kitchen door.

Moira bites back her smile as she finishes wiping down the counter. She has plenty of time for a good lecture and then a glass of wine before settling into bed herself.

***

He's playing on a swing in the gardens. Normally he'd have Raven to play with, but she's shopping with Mother. She doesn't need the clothes, of course, but she likes playing dress up and having nice things and they have to go through the motions, anyhow. He hates shopping, so he's glad to miss the trip, but it's quiet and strange without her.

Then, suddenly, it's not so quiet.

"You broke it!" Cain roars, barrelling out of nowhere. He barely has time to climb a tree to get out of the way, and he's just not fast enough. Cain grabs his ankle and pulls him down. "You broke my bike and now you have to pay!"

He didn't touch it, he never did, but Cain never accepted that. Cain broke things just for an excuse to hit him, and sometimes there was no excuse at all, sometimes Cain just showered rage and pain down upon him and he wanted to help, he wanted to stop it, because no one should have to go through that, but he couldn't risk it, he couldn't manage, it was too deep and all he could do was absorb the anger and the pain and protect Raven, that was paramount, protect Raven at all costs even when it means suffering through this, even when it means Cain kicking him and hitting him over and over again until there's blood in his eyes and he can't breathe, it hurts so badly, and his mother isn't there to help him and Raven is gone too and there's no one, there's no one, he's all alone and....

Erik's ears are ringing from a slap, but it hurts... differently. Less and more at the same time, and he shouts, suddenly able to surge forward. He blinks and comes back to himself. He's not a child and he's not on the grounds, he's in bed, twisted in the sheets, in bed with Charles and--Raven?

He opens his mouth to ask what's going on, but Raven raises her hand again and slaps Charles. He's--unbelievably--still asleep. He curls more tightly in on himself and Raven slaps him again. Before she can do it a third time, Erik grabs her wrist.

"We have to wake him up!" she says, yanking her arm back, and as the surge of adrenaline passes, Erik begins to understand what's happening. Now that the rushing in his ears has quieted, he can hear Jean and Ororo crying out in the hallway. Angel and Hank are standing in the doorway, wide-eyed, and Moira is out in the hall, murmuring quietly to the two sobbing girls. The boys are there too, mumbling to each other and occasionally shooting glances through the open door. Charles was dreaming. Charles is dreaming, so deeply and out of control that the entire house was sucked in.

Raven slaps Charles a third time and his eyes fly open. He gasps, jerking forward, and Raven sags forward with relief.

"You were dreaming," she says, throwing her arms around him while he's still blinking and struggling to sit up. "You were dreaming about Cain, Charles, the whole house--"

"Oh my," Charles manages to say, voice small and strained. "I haven't--not in years."

"I know, I know," Raven says. She's still clutching him. "Are you alright? Is everything alright? I couldn't wake you." She pulls away enough to look at Charles critically. For the first time, Erik notices the tears in her eyes. All of the resentment that had been bubbling over all day is gone. She spares Erik a glance and adds, "I couldn't wake either of you. I was afraid--"

"I'm sorry, my darling," Charles says. "I'm fine." But he doesn't sound fine. His voice is shaking and he's stumbling out of bed. He sags forward, legs unable to hold him upright, and Erik is rolling off the bed and at his side in an instant, propping him up. "I'm fine," he tells Erik. "I'm fine, everything's fine, it was just a dream."

"It wasn't just a dream, Charles," Erik says. "You're not fine. You can't even stand!"

"It will pass," Charles insists, but he's soaked with sweat and clinging to Erik's bare chest to stay upright. He cringes and grinds the heel of his hand into his right temple, groaning. Erik looks desperately at Raven. He's completely at a loss. He wants to pick Charles up and shield him from the noise and pain and the images he saw in the dream, but hiding Charles away from the others won't stop the crying and the panic that even he can feel pulsing through the house. Raven shrugs, helpless, but before Erik can shout at everyone to go back to bed and leave Charles alone--the anxiety and questions and noise can't be helping him--Charles takes a deep breath and then takes most of his weight back from Erik, standing more or less of his own volition.

"I'm fine," he insists again, his voice calmer and level. His eyes aren't quite so crazed, and while he still looks weak and scattered, Erik isn't afraid he's going to collapse. He meets Erik's eyes, long and serious, thinking, I'm fine, I'm fine, I swear, I'm fine, let me talk to them, let me calm them down, I'm sorry for waking you, love.

"Sorry for--? Charles," Erik says, letting out a sharp, frustrated sigh.

"Raven," Charles says, looking away, "I apologize. Thank you for waking me." He gently disentangles himself from Erik and takes a few unsteady steps, his stride becoming more sure as he approaches the door. "I apologize to all of you," he says to Hank and Angel, and then ducks out of the room. "Jean, Ororo, I'm so terribly sorry...."

Erik shakes his head and rubs his eyes. A glance at the wall clock reveals that it's not yet three am. Brilliant. He catches Raven's eye and sees his frustration and concern reflected back at him. Raven shrugs again, and then follows Charles out into the hallway, where the girls are quieting down. Erik watches her go and only then realizes exactly what the rest of the house walked in on. He and Charles. In bed together.

Angel and Hank are still standing in the doorway. Angel's eyes have followed Raven out into the hall and she looks more concerned and frightened than anything. He remembers what she said to them on the day they met, the blase look on her face as if the idea of two men seeking sexual enjoyment together wasn't as troublesome as the idea of them stiffing her out of half of her pay. That's at least one person who won't be a problem, then.

Hank, on the other hand, is staring at Erik, not quite able to meet his eyes, his gaze landing everywhere but on Erik or the rumpled bed.

Wonderful.

Erik knows he should say something, but he's both exhausted and wired. He can't deal with answering awkward questions at the moment, so he grabs his dressing gown and shrugs it on, elbowing his way out of the room. He heads the opposite direction from where Charles is holding Ororo and murmuring soothingly to Jean. Let him play the dutiful, penitent parent. It makes it all the easier for Erik to escape the commotion and use the servant's stairwell, unnoticed, to hide in the downstairs library.

Moira and Erik have taken over a shelf in the library and dedicated it to comfort reads. It wasn't something they discussed, but Erik placed his own well-worn copy of Moby-Dick on the shelf, followed by the library's copy of Frankenstein and a collection of Hemingway he found in one of the studies, and soon Moira's Wilde and James and Chopin followed, along with the book of Ginsberg poems she's insistent he read. It's nearly full, now, their volumes mingling together, the collection growing slowly. It's a strange sort of comfort, a reminder that he's not alone in this, either.

Tonight, he pulls out a Hemmingway collection and sits on one of the sofas. He doesn't imagine he'll be sleeping much and he wants to talk to Charles, but not until he can get him alone. Charles, who's their defacto leader and father figure, who always puts everyone before himself. He'll have to soothe every worry before he comes looking for Erik.

Erik's still trying to learn how to share. He thinks it's going to take some time.

He tries to concentrate on the words, but the letters blur together. He's tired and frustrated and--yes, concerned. Charles' projected dream adds a clarity to his childhood, one that Erik was happy being oblivious to. He doesn't like the idea of someone having hurt Charles. He doesn't like the idea that there's nothing he can do about it. Erik's not naive--it would be impossible, really, after all he's been through. There are beliefs he has, though, morals that make him who he is. Everyone needs a code, needs personal rules to follow. Family is supposed to be sacred. He's not sure if it's his mother's death that's colored that, if he would have the same belief if they'd evacuated before the war and avoided their fate entirely, but he can't change it now that it's there, ingrained in his head. Family is supposed to be about trust. Charles' parents betrayed that trust when he was too small to do anything about it.

Mostly, though, he can't stand the thought of Charles facing it, day after day, hurting and afraid in his own home. He can't stand the thought of knowing that those things happened years and years ago and nothing Erik can do or say will erase them.

A gentle tendril of Charles' telepathy pokes at Erik's awareness. Erik looks up from his book just in time to see the door to the library slowly swing open, even as Erik's mind relays an invitation.

"May I join you?" Charles asks hesitantly.

"It's your library," Erik says, and he shifts down the couch and gestures at the open space. Charles sits next to him, but leaves several inches of space between them.

"Good book?" Charles asks. Erik sighs and puts it on the table.

"Are we going to play this game tonight?" Erik asks.

"I suppose it's a bit late for that," Charles admits. He pauses, biting his lip and then says, "It was a nightmare, Erik. It's nothing to worry about."

"That wasn't nothing to worry about, Charles," Erik says. "I've been sleeping next to you for two months. I've been within shouting distance for almost a year. Nothing like that has ever happened to you. Not after Darwin was killed, not after Cuba, not after you were kidnapped."

Charles closes his eyes and hangs his head.

"What was that, Charles?" Erik asks, though he regrets it as soon as the words leave his mouth. He knows exactly what it was and the look on Charles' face only confirms it. Erik sighs. "That name, Cain--when you were missing, I asked Raven who knew you were staying in the house. She mentioned Cain and when I asked who he was, she dodged the question."

"He was--he is our stepbrother," Charles says. He sits up fully and rubs the back of his neck with a rueful half-smile.

"He hurt you," Erik says.

"A great many things in my life have hurt me, my dear. I'm sure a great many more will continue to hurt me in the future."

"Not all of those things give you nightmares so strong you wake the entire house," Erik says. Charles shrugs and Erik pulls out his hidden trump card. "You claim to know everything about me. You can give me this at least, can't you?"

"I--" Charles looks torn, embarrassed almost. "Really, Erik, next to the horrors of your childhood--"

"Next to nothing," Erik says. "It's not a contest, Charles. You had a stepbrother. He hit you."

"Yes," Charles says.

"Your parents didn't stop it?"

Charles laughs at that, sharp and harsh, and seems almost startled by the sound. "My father died when I was young," he says. "I was six. I barely remember him. When he was gone, there was no one and then there was Raven. I was able to convince my mother, the help, everyone that Raven was my sister, an orphaned niece of my father's whom my mother adopted to ease the loneliness in the house after my father's death. Having Raven--it was extraordinary. I'd never had--I'd never had a lot of things, but what I wanted more than anything was a companion and for a year I got that." He swallows hard and then looks away.

"Then came the Markos," he says.

Erik waits patiently for Charles to continue. He will, now that he's started, but in his own time. Long minutes pass.

"Kurt had been a business partner of my father's," Charles finally says. "He'd known my mother for a long time, and when his own wife died and left him with nothing, he immediately took up with my mother. She married him within a year. He was--cruel. He hit his son, he verbally abused both Raven and myself. He would have done more, I imagine, if I hadn't intervened. If I'd been in greater control of my powers, I may have been able to get him to leave all together, but between making sure everyone believed Raven belonged and protecting her and protecting myself...I was still a child. I couldn't manage it."

"You shouldn't have had to," Erik murmurs. Charles smiles at him wanly and shrugs.

"Kurt couldn't rough me up too much--most of the money was in my name," he explains. "But Cain had no such compunctions. He could tell there was something different about Raven and me. The only way he seemed to express that difference was with his fists. It wasn't... terribly traumatic. Overall, I mean. But as a child, it seemed like an endless, awful nightmare. I imagine many children get kicked around by their parents and siblings and come out from it well-adjusted. Raven and I have mostly managed. But at the time, I thought it would never end. It haunted my nightmares. I was terrified to leave my room." He gestures towards the wall, towards the other end of the house. "That far wing? That was the wing Kurt took over. It was where his suite was and where Cain's rooms were. I try to avoid it if I can--I don't have terribly good memories about that part of the house. Being back there, I suppose, triggered those memories."

It's no wonder Charles gets so stiff on that side of the house, so tired and haunted. Erik makes a mental note to change the layout as much as they can when it comes time to renovate. He doesn't want Charles associating any part of their school with his own childhood.

"It's foolish, I know," Charles says. "It was just a dream, but it was like I was a child again, twelve years old and being beaten to a pulp by someone older and bigger and stronger who wouldn't let me up. I couldn't breathe. It was a bit terrifying, frankly, but I'm also aware that I'm not a scared little boy anymore. I have much more control of my powers and I know how to handle myself and stand up to bullies. For a moment, though...."

Charles shudders and inches imperceptibly closer. Erik thinks about what Moira said earlier about waiting versus doing and gives into impulse. He closes the distance between them, putting his arm around Charles' shoulders. Charles relaxes into the touch, the tension draining out of him. It was, apparently, the right move.

"How did it end?" Erik asks. "I mean, obviously they're not still around."

"Mum... drank herself to death," Charles says. He sounds sad but there's an edge to the sadness, like he's more upset that he's not as sad as he should be. "I was fifteen. A week after her funeral, Kurt was set to send Raven and me off to boarding school, to sell the house, to get at her money any way he could. We had an argument in his lab. It started a fire. He got the two of us out but...he didn't make it himself." Charles tentatively puts his head on Erik's shoulder. "He wasn't a good man by any means. He was a selfish tyrant. He wanted nothing from my family that didn't have monetary value. But when it counted, he put mine and Raven's lives above his own, and that counts for something."

Erik thinks that saving two children counts for very little--it's basic decency. He keeps that to himself, though, and runs his fingers through Charles' hair.

"Cain wasn't home when it happened," Charles continues. "When he heard the news he was furious. He blamed me, of course. Claimed that I had to have started the fire, that I intentionally killed his father, that he knew I was funny in the head. He... beat me senseless, really. But--it had been a stressful week, of course, and I reached the breaking point and I just... snapped. And I fought back with my telepathy. He was terrified, but I managed to implant the suggestion that he wanted to go far, far away, that he was shunning the Xaviers never to return. He joined the army, I think."

He shrugs, but the gesture is odd and abortive, the way he's leaning against Erik's side. "That's the whole story. It's hardly world-shaking. Nothing out of place in any family of means, I'd imagine. Money, as it turns out, does not make one's problems go away, but it can make them invisible to the public."

Erik shakes his head. Charles is right that, in the scheme of things, it's not as gripping a trauma as his own, but they're not comparable. He finds the idea of anyone hurting Charles for any reason to be unreasonably upsetting. He likes the picture in his head of a young man buoyed by money and extraordinary intelligence, happy and successful, untouched by the horrors of the world as he charms his way through life. For all he gets frustrated by Charles' idealism, he prefers thinking it's naivety to knowing there are things in the world that have hurt him.

"So," Erik says, brushing his fingers through Charles' hair again, "is that what you meant when you told me the scar on your back was from 'the regular rough-and-tumble exploits of childhood?'"

"Oh, no," Charles says on a laugh, "that really was the regular growing pains. I have a few others from incidents with Cain, mind, but the one on my back was from a fall from a tree. Raven dared me to climb to the top and the branches were not as sturdy as they seemed. I blacked out when I hit the ground. She screamed so hard the gardener, cook, and nanny all came running out of the house. She thought I was dead. I'm lucky the only lasting damage was that scar."

Erik slides his hand down between Charles' shoulders and rests his palm over the spot where that scar mars the flawless skin of Charles' back. He knows that scar, has pressed his mouth to it more times than he can count, has traced the outline with the tip of his tongue as Charles writhed and whimpered and he's glad that, at least, has no associations with Charles' vile stepfamily.

"Will you be able to sleep tonight?" Erik asks him.

"Maybe," Charles says. He burrows closer, slipping a hand under Erik's dressing gown to wrap around his hip. "We'll see. Keep reading?"

"Out loud?" Erik asks. They should probably keep talking. They should probably address the fact that the entire student body burst in on the two of them in bed together. Erik should probably offer some hollow reassurances that Charles' dead stepfather and missing stepbrother will never be able to hurt him again.

Erik doesn't want to do any of those things, though. Charles clearly doesn't either, and this? This will work.

"You don't have to," Charles says. "That is, as long as you don't mind my listening." He taps Erik's temple gently and Erik shakes his head.

"That's fine," he says. "Any requests?"

"Something within arm's reach," Charles says. "I don't fancy moving."

"Lazy," Erik murmurs, but there's affection there and he feels Charles smile against his shoulder. "Hemingway it is."

He takes care to think in English, though he thinks Charles would be able to understand him in German as well, and tries to make sure he's reading for meaning and not just skimming as he flips through stories he's read multiple times before. Somewhere around the end of the second story, Charles falls asleep on his shoulder, and as Erik contemplates the pros and cons of carrying him back to bed, slumber claims him as well.

***

Charles wakes slowly and with a crick in his neck that he hasn't felt quite this badly since his university days. He's lying on Erik, but it takes a moment for him to place them in the library and then for the rest of the evening to trickle back to the forefront of his mind.

He rubs at his eyes, though it does nothing to dispel the exhaustion that's weighing him down.

He projected a nightmare. He feels like a child again, vulnerable and embarrassed. He hasn't done that in years, not since he left this place the first time. Not only did he project a nightmare, but one so juvenile and so telling....

Erik stirs beneath him. He winces as he pushes himself up, and Charles feels terrible for keeping him out of bed. At least the fire kept going for long enough to keep them warm.

"I'm sorry," he says quietly, but Erik shakes his head.

"At least you slept," Erik says. He leans up and kisses the corner of Charles' mouth. "Moira said...." He trails off and Charles feels his stomach turn over with shame and maybe nerves. What right does Moira have to tell Erik--well, whatever she told him? It's not important, people sleepwalk all the time and-- "...that you haven't been sleeping well," Erik finishes, and Charles deflates.

"I'm fine," Charles lies. He should be fine. He doesn't know what's gotten into him. He wants to blame the house or even his kidnapping, but they're both far enough past that it doesn't seem likely. He knows that sometimes these things linger, but he knows his own mind well enough to tell when old traumas are lingering or when new experiences are blooming new issues. He had nightmares about the beach up until the moment Erik kissed him, the moment Charles finally believed his promise to stay. He could trace them to the source, could admit to himself that it was his own insecurities, his fears that all his love wouldn't be enough to keep Erik from letting loose the destruction in his heart. When he looks at these nightmares, he sees no source other than abuses from his childhood that he overcame long ago.

He fears, sometimes still, that he won't be enough for Erik, but those are a different sort of dream all together.

This morning, though, he can tell it's not true, at least for today. Erik is studying him intently, his gaze and mind and hold speaking of nothing but affection and concern. Charles knows even without reading the exact nature of Erik's thoughts that he doesn't believe Charles, but that he wants to do whatever he can to ensure that Charles gets fine.

"Are you still tired?" Erik asks. "I'm sure no one would think twice if you decided to go back to bed for a few hours. I can come up with some busy work for your lessons, or Hank can take over."

Erik appreciates the values inherent in a solid work day. Erik abhors laziness. If Erik is advocating that Charles return to bed, he must look poorly indeed. He feels poorly, like there's a quiet buzz in the back of his mind, static fading in and out occasionally, mixed with the gritty lethargy of insomnia.

He needs to get himself together. He has responsibilities, obligations. It won't do for the children to think of him as so fragile that he's confined to bed after a silly nightmare.

He forces a smile.

"No," he says. "I'm fine, really. We've already overslept--best to go join the children for breakfast and then face the day, don't you think?"

Erik's not certain that's the correct plan of action--his mind is screaming it--but when Charles stands up and offers Erik his hand, Erik takes it.

"I suppose we should make sure they haven't burned down the kitchen," Erik says, and Charles holds in a sigh of relief.

He can tell, without probing too deeply, that Raven, Angel, Alex, and Hank are already gathered in the kitchen and that Sean is on his way. He can also tell, without looking further, that Charles himself is the topic of conversation. He didn't expect anything less after last night, but it still stings, just a little.

He hesitates outside of the kitchen once he can actually hear their voices. He expected the talk to be about his nightmares or his abilities, but instead....

"--they like, actually have sex?" Sean is saying. "I mean, both of them together? Two guys?"

Charles puts out his arm, preventing Erik from going further forward.

"What?" Erik asks.

"I want to hear this," Charles murmurs, voice pitched low so not to carry into the kitchen.

Erik's unhappy--at the topic of conversation, at the fact that Charles isn't putting a stop to it--but doesn't try to push past. Charles finds himself relieved. He was afraid it would be a different conversation altogether, one about Charles' instability, about his nightmare, about his childhood. This, at least, he knows how to deal with.

"You're a telepath," Erik says. "If you want to know what they think about us, can't you just read their minds?"

Not that it matters what they think, rings in the wake of Erik's words.

"What people think and what people say are frequently two different things," Charles says. "There's much to learn in the differences."

Erik doesn't reply, but he doesn't move forward, either.

"What of it?" Raven says. "So what?"

"I can't believe you didn't know already," Angel says. "The first time I ever met them, I could tell. I mean, come on. You see the way they are with each other. They're practically married."

Charles supposes that the fact that Angel first met them sitting close together on a bed in a strip club contributed to that, even though they weren't actually romantically involved until much more recently. That she came with them despite that assumption makes her feelings on the subject clear.

"It's just weird!" Sean says. "I mean, they're not ugly or girly or anything. They could get women easily. And Moira's right here and she's way hot. Why would you pick another guy over someone like that?"

"They're in love, idiot," Raven says. "They're both plenty attractive and could have anyone they want. They want each other."

"But why would they want each other and not a girl, is the thing," Sean says. "It's just weird."

Sean missing the nuance of the thing, as to be expected. He can practically hear Erik rolling his eyes.

"It's unnatural," Hank says. Charles had thought as much. Poor Hank. For all the strides he's made since his transformation, he can't help but be tangled up in society's expectations.

Beside Charles, Erik tenses.

"If it wasn't," Hank continues, "there would be evidence of it in other animals. It's classified as a mental illness, you know. And the government has been--"

"Shut the fuck up."

Ah. Alex. Alex is the real reason for this little exercise. Alex has been working through so much grief and rage, most of it self-directed. Charles is curious to see how this in particular was internalized.

"Excuse me?" Hank asks. His voice trembles.

"You shut up!" Alex repeats. "None of that--that's bullshit, all of it."

"It's not bullshit, it's scientific fact," Hank insists.

"It's not fact!" Raven snaps. "There's nothing wrong with Charles! He told me--lots of men are attracted to other men and lots of women are attracted to other women. Some people are attracted to both! They think about it, even if they don't say it!"

"They don't say it because--"

"Don't fucking say anything, McCoy!" Alex again. "There's nothing wrong with it! You mind your own fucking business! The professor's really fucking smart--there's nothing wrong with his brain! Nothing wrong with Erik's, either. Let them fuck whoever they want to fuck! If you liked them well enough before you knew that, why wouldn't you like them now?"

That last line is purely Armando. Charles can hear the words in Armando's casual tone, can see him sitting loose and easy and saying them. More than that, though, he can feel the pain radiating out of Alex as he parrots the thought.

"It has nothing to do with liking--"

There's a crash and a cacophony of voices as Sean, Angel, and Raven wordlessly cry out.

"Chill, man!" Sean says.

"Fuck off!" Alex shouts.

"I was merely--"

"Shut up, Hank!" Angel and Raven chorus.

Outside the scuffle in the kitchen, Moira approaches them from behind.

"Eavesdropping?" she asks.

"Observing," Charles murmurs. Erik grunts. His jaw is set. This is probably not going to help the tentative truce between Hank and Erik. Hank's still only slowly coming to accept the new level of his mutation, and that hesitance combined with his enthusiasm for hooking Charles up to the Cerebro prototypes... things between the two of them are often strained.

"Calm down," Charles says to him, not quietly enough that Moira misses it. She rolls her eyes and walks past them and into the kitchen proper.

"Well, good morning to you kids, too," Moira says, after a moment. "Please, don't stop beating the crap out of each other on my account."

"We were just discussing Charles and Erik," Raven says stiffly.

"Which I'm sure they'll be thrilled to hear," Moira says. "Have you seen them yet this morning? How's Charles doing?"

That stings, but Charles appreciates the deflection for what it is. Moira coming down firmly in their camp without making a show of it. Hank's less astute, however.

"Moira," he says. "You worked for the CIA. You understand--"

"I understand that the government was almost as quick to lock mutants up as it was homosexuals," she says coolly. "The government's not always right, Hank. Did anyone start any coffee?"

And that's that. There's a quiet clatter and chairs being pulled in and out. The rustling of the newspaper. It's no matter--Charles has learned what he wanted to know. Raven and Angel are accepting, as he knew they would be, Sean is more confused than anything else, Hank is nervous and slightly repulsed, and Alex--well. That was the point of it all. Alex has at least forgiven himself this.

"And what the hell was that?" Erik asks quietly.

"I was just... curious," Charles says. "I know Alex has been struggling with Armando's death, blaming himself for it, and I wanted to see how he'd react to the discussion of another homosexual couple. He's internalized quite a lot of his anger, but I wasn't sure without prying if he internalized that as well. Darwin was crucial in helping him to accept that part of himself."

Erik hides his shock well, but not well enough.

"Alex is a homosexual?" he asks flatly. Charles nods. "And he was--he and Darwin were--" Charles nods again.

"And Shaw killed Darwin with Alex's own power," Erik says, his mouth set in a grim line. "Fuck."

"Quite," Charles says. "I... tried to talk to him about the whole thing but, well. I don't think he relates to me very easily. It was awkward to say the least." He thinks Erik might fare better--there are stark similarities between Alex and Erik, the least of which is watching Shaw take someone from them while they were powerless to stop it. Still, best to subtly plant the suggestion in conversation and see if Erik takes matters into his own hands.

"He'll deal with it in his own way," Erik says, but there's a flash of possession and fear. A brush of Erik's mind reveals, What if Shaw had taken Charles? and all the rage and pain and fear and relief that thought brings. Charles steps into Erik's personal space and kisses him.

"I'm sure Alex will be fine," Charles says. "I think I need a cup of tea."

"I think you need to go back to bed," Erik says, but propels Charles towards the kitchen with a hand at the small of his back. Hopefully a day full of teaching and paperwork will get his mind off of whatever's causing his lingering nightmares.

***

For the second time in less than a week, Moira finds herself volunteering to go into town.

The house is uncomfortable. Whatever's causing all this speculation about ghosts and hauntings is bad enough. Charles' nightmares and the divide between the children after the revelation about the true nature of Charles and Erik's relationship have added even more tension. She'd blame it on cabin fever, but the weather is finally starting to get nice enough to allow extended time out of doors.

It might have something to do with their limited social circle. It might just be the dreary time of the year. Either way, Moira's had about enough.

"Are you going into town?" Raven asks. Morning classes are over and there's a two hour break before the afternoon classes start up again. Erik encourages them to use that break to train, but Moira spied him poking around the library looking for Charles.

"Yeah," Moira says. "Post Office...other things...." Coffee, mostly, and just not being here for a few minutes.

"Can I come?" Raven says. "I don't need anything, I just--this place is kind of insane today, isn't it?"

Hank knocking things over every time Charles or Erik speak to him, Sean squinting at them oddly, Alex's eyes flashing like he'll hit the next person who touches him, the younger children afraid to get too close to Charles...yeah. A little insane.

"Come on," Moira says, gesturing towards the garage. "Let's get out of here before anyone else notices."

Moira spent a not insubstantial amount of time with Raven last summer, over the long months while Charles and Erik were driving across the country, recruiting more young mutants. For the first three weeks of that trip, it was just Hank, Moira, and Raven back at the CIA facility and Hank spent most of his time in the lab. When watching him got boring, Raven would find Moira. At first they just watched television or read, but as the days passed, they found themselves talking as well. First about Charles and Moira's job, then about Elvis and Frankie Avalon and Lewis Carroll and fashion and all sorts of other things.

Moira likes Raven. She's young and impulsive and sensitive and insecure, now, but she thinks that under the right tutelage, she'll grow into a capable, self-assured young woman. Moira hadn't intended to provide that tutelage, but things change and here she is, living with two self-absorbed men who haven't the first clue on how to advise young girls. She might as well offer Raven and Angel and Jean and Ororo the mentoring that she never got.

 

"Hank's such an ass," Raven says once they're pulling out of the garage. "I thought he was getting better, you know? More accepting of things. I've been helping him out in the lab, testing that new disabling net stuff that he wants to turn into a fence and he even made a comment about how it's good to take a break from Cerebro because Erik is so protective over Charles. I thought he understood. I can't believe I actually used to--nevermind."

"No," Moira says. "I get it. He's just... insecure about a lot of things. When we're fucked up, even if it's not obvious, we're always sure that everyone is staring at our imperfections all the time. All we want to do is erase them and blend into the crowd, or stand out on our own merits. It's really hard to buck what we're taught. Hank's been taught that homosexuals belong in prison and he's never really had to confront it before now."

Moira hadn't had to confront it until one of her first field assignments at the FBI. One of their best informants was a homosexual man named Jim and her bosses thought it would be funny to send her out to meet with him without telling her first. He was smart and he was funny and he funnelled them incredibly valuable information, but that didn't stop Moira's initial discomfort. It feels silly now, and it makes her angry, how dismissive the higher ups were of both her and Jim, how dismissive she was until she met him.

"Still," Raven says. "He knows Charles and Erik. He should know better."

"I'm sure he'll figure it out with time," Moira says. "Give him some time to turn it over in his head. Hank's a smart guy. He'll come to the right conclusions."

"I guess," Raven says. She sighs and leans against the window and Moira glances over at her. It's so strange to see her in the blonde facade she used to wear daily. Moira's gotten used to seeing her run around the house in her natural coloring and she needs to remind herself that this is the same girl--it's not a stranger.

She thinks she'll mention that to Raven at some point. It might help her own shaky acceptance of her mutation.

"How are you always so cool?" Raven asks, turning to her. "I mean, you saw mutants for the first time and instead of thinking you needed to get your eyes checked, you looked for Charles. You never looked at any of us funny or called us freaks and you could be doing anything, but you stayed with us. You don't mind Charles and Erik, you don't mind all the stray kids we keep picking up, and Angel said that she heard Erik tell Charles your boyfriend is black."

Moira blinks. Boyfriend. Jesus.

"First off," she says, "We've been on one date. He's not my boyfriend. And secondly..."

She turns the question over in her head. Why is she so cool? The answer is because she had to be if she wanted to keep her job, her livelihood, her agency. She rubs her temple.

"Men don't like women," she finally says. "No, that's not fair. Many men, especially in positions of power, don't like women who show up in places they supposedly shouldn't. There were a lot of men who didn't think I should be allowed to be trained as a CIA agent. They did what they could to try and sabotage it, and even once I secured my job, it became sort of an office joke--do what you can to scare the new girl. I had to rely on what I saw, what I heard. I had to learn to trust myself, because I couldn't trust anyone else around me."

"How are you not angry all the time?" Raven asks.

"I am," Moira says with a shrug. "But I funnel it into other things. I save it for the people who deserve it and don't let it bleed over into the people that don't. I appreciate when people are decent and try to reward their good behavior. And--honestly? A lot of times, other people who are walked all over make the best allies. They know what it's like. Not all the time by far, but I'm usually more likely to find an ally in another woman or a black man than I am to find one in a white man." She shrugs. "You guys respect me, at least, which is more than I can say for most people."

Raven eyes Moira critically for a long moment as Moira turns the car onto the more suburban road that will lead them into town.

"Sometimes it's really easy to see why you and Erik are such good friends," she finally says. "You have a lot in common. In ways that Charles will never understand."

"I really like your brother," Moira says. "I respect him, too. But, yeah, sometimes it's like he lives in a little bubble."

"Yeah," Raven says. She turns and stares out the window and Moira can tell from the set of her shoulders that she's uncomfortable. "It's...hard, I guess. Being a telepath. Harder than I had ever really thought about before...everything that happened with Shaw. Until Erik, Charles didn't really have any friends, you know? He everyone liked him, but he kind of shied away from anyone but me. I used to think he was protecting me, but it was hard for him, too, being around people like that. Plus, we'd kind of learned to rely on ourselves, to not ask for help, so...." She shrugs half-heartedly.

Moira's made certain assumptions about their upbringing, based on the house, their personalities, her background reading, and Charles' nightmares. Still, she's curious, both from an objective perspective and as Charles' friend.

"I can't imagine you got out a lot, growing up there," she says. She means it as bait. Raven takes it as such.

"That's an understatement," Raven says. "We were tutored at home until Sharon remarried and then for a year after that. Once Cain started beating the crap out of Charles regularly, he convinced Sharon to send me to prep school. I don't know if he like..." She wiggles her fingers by her temple in a clear mimicry of her brother's telepathic tell. "--or if she was so soused she just went along with it. I hated it, but I understood. I wish he'd done the same thing for himself, but he's always been so smart that I guess it would have been a pain getting him into classes that didn't bore him to tears."

"Cain was that bad?" Moira asked.

"I don't think he would have been if Sharon and Marko weren't so bad," Raven admits. "He was way, way bigger than Charles, who didn't hit his growth spurt until he was sixteen. Tall and heavy. And it was just unrelenting since Sharon didn't care and Marko thought it was funny. And Charles wouldn't do anything about it because he kept saying it wasn't Cain's fault, which didn't make sense and I would get pissed at him...it wasn't a great time in our lives. Then Sharon died and then Marko died and Cain went away and we left for Boston and Oxford and never looked back."

"Until now," Moira says. It's no wonder Charles has been unsettled all this time. Jesus.

"Yeah, I guess," Raven says. "I always kind of thought he dealt with it? He used to have nightmares when we first moved to Cambridge. He had wanted to live in the dorms, but I was still in school, so we had to get a flat. It was a good thing, too--he'd wake me up night after night with nightmares. But after a few months, they started to fade and by the time he graduated Harvard, he wasn't having them at all anymore."

"Nice to know that everyone's got some skeletons in the closet," Moira says. None of this is particularly surprising, but when she adds the additional layer of telepathy to it, she winces. The physical violence is bad enough without being able to hear the intent behind it. Probably makes it harder to blame everything on your attacker, too.

"It's weird," Raven says. "But we left home and it kind of... wasn't important anymore. We never talked about it. I didn't really think about it and I don't think Charles did either. Not until we moved back here, at least. He hasn't even told Erik--at least, he hadn't before Frost kidnapped him. Maybe he has now."

"I think, after last night, he probably has," Moira says. "But, really none of my business."

"You're their friend too," Raven says.

"I feel like that makes it even more complicated," Moira admits. "Have you noticed--" She stops and considers. After speaking to Erik last night and looking at Charles' actions a little more closely, Moira has to agree that he has been slightly off recently. He's been acting weird. And it could be the house and it could be the stress of teaching and it could be exhaustion or any number of other things, but the times that he's weird... "Have you noticed Charles is acting... weird?"

"Weirder than usual, you mean?" Raven asks.

"Weird around... me," Moira says.

"Not that I've noticed," Raven says.

"There's just been a few times in the past few weeks when we've been talking--me and Charles and Erik--and Charles has just gotten..." She shrugs. "It's probably nothing."

"Ah," Raven says. "You and Erik. There you go."

Moira turns to her and raises her eyebrows.

"You and Erik," Raven repeats. "Charles is... strange about friendships. He's jealous."

"I have zero designs on Lehnsherr, believe me," Moira says. "He may be nice to look at, but he's also a lunatic. And not given to romancing people of the female persuasion."

"Not jealous about that," Raven says, just as Moira spies a parking spot across from the bank. "Jealous of you guys in general. That you're friends. That you have a relationship that doesn't include him, even if it's a platonic one."

Moira parks the car and turns that over in her head. Charles does like having his nose in everyone's business, and after years of getting by with just Raven, she can see how he might be a little overprotective of his friends.

That doesn't mean she likes it.

"I'm allowed to be friends with people," Moira says. "So is Erik."

"Which he knows, which is why he won't actually say anything to you," Raven says. "He knows it's stupid and none of his business and he's probably ashamed for feeling that way, so he'll just get snooty and pretend nothing's bothering him until he gets used to it and accepts it and moves on." Raven unbuckles and gets out of the car, leaning back in to add, "Welcome to life with Charles. It's a joy."

"I'll bet," Moira says.

The town is bustling for lunch, people running errands and flitting in and out of shops. Moira has no particular destination in mind--she doesn't think there will be anything in her PO box after only a few days and there aren't any errands she needs to run. Being out of the house is a relief, though. She's enjoying walking down the streets, surrounded by people who don't notice her and don't care, who don't have a million questions for her, who don't need anything from her.

Raven's pace is a little more hesitant, her expression guarded. Moira watches her watch everyone else for a few seconds before saying, "Everything okay?"

"They'd probably hate me if they saw me in my real skin," she murmurs.

Moira eyes the crowd critically.

"Maybe," she agrees. "Or maybe they'd pity you or maybe they'd fetishize you. And maybe, if these plans of your brother's pan out, in ten years, they won't bat an eyelash. Or maybe they won't and in ten years we'll be fighting Erik's war."

Raven frowns.

"You've just named like, every possibility. And none of them make me feel any better right now," she says.

"That's because you're the only person who can make yourself feel better right now," Moira says. "Who cares what the rest of the world thinks? Feel good about yourself and they won't matter. I don't think Erik's right, but I don't think Charles is entirely right either. I think it's going to be a struggle, but not in the way Erik imagines. This is going to be political. It's all going to come down to politics, and that's our next task. Once we iron out the kinks in the school, we're going to need to prepare a political agenda."

"What?" Raven asks. "Like a mutant rights law?"

"Exactly like that," Moira says. "Why do you think so many people are clamoring for civil rights laws? That's the foundation--make it illegal to discriminate and work from there."

Raven looks dubious but doesn't say anything further, still frowning as she looks away. Moira can almost see the gears turning in her head. She hopes that what Raven takes away is that she needs to find her own path instead of following Charles or Erik, but Moira's not going to push. Not today, at least.

They stop for coffee and pause on their way out to investigate what's playing at the cinema. It's a pleasant way to kill an hour, chatting about television and Raven's first read of The Awakening, a birthday present from Moira. They avoid any mention of the supposed ghost and the strained atmosphere of the house, and Moira's just about ready to return when Raven puts a hand on her arm to stop her in her tracks.

"Hey, can we stop inside?" she asks, pointing to the corner store. "I told Angel I'd pick up a magazine for her."

"Sure," Moira says, and follows Raven in, thinking about picking up some more newspapers before Nate Foley catches her eye and she freezes.

"Mary," Nate says, grinning, and Moira grins back through it feels slightly awkward. Raven turns in place and does a double take when she sees Nate.

"Wow," she mouths to Moira, who rolls her eyes.

"Hi, Nate," she says. "This is a nice surprise. This is one of my students. Rachel." The lie comes easily. They always do. It's strange--her life now barely resembles the one she was living a year ago, but it's no trouble at all to slip back into it. Like flexing a muscle. "Rachel, this is Mr. Nate Foley. He's a night watchman over at the bank."

Raven looks at Moira again, her eyebrows raised. She's impressed. Moira wants to smack her own forehead repeatedly.

"Pleasure to meet you, young lady," Nate says. He reaches for Raven's hand and then kisses the back of it. Raven giggles. "Is this a school trip, then?"

"Not exactly," Moira says. "It's a little crazy at the school today, so we decided to run some errands on our lunch break."

Nate sticks his hands in his pockets and nods. Moira resists the urge to brush her hair back behind her ear, the only nervous tell she hasn't been able to break. Raven is smirking, and somehow she looks just like Erik as she does it. Moira wonders if Raven absently picks up the mannerisms of the people around her or if it's just a coincidence.

"I'll leave you to it, then," he says. "I just wanted to say hello. And let you know I'm looking forward to tomorrow night."

"Me too," Moira says. She means it. She's almost disgusted with herself--there's definitely something off about the whole affair, but she's genuinely excited about the prospect of their date despite her misgivings.

"Nice to meet you, Rachel," he says, tipping his pageboy hat to her.

"Likewise," Raven says.

As he passes them towards the door, he brushes up against Moira's arm deliberately and Moira, goddammit, is blushing again.

Raven waits until the door closes behind him to turn to Moira with her eyebrows in the vicinity of her hairline.

"Wow," she says again. "I mean, wow."

"Oh, be quiet," Moira says. "Go get your magazines."

Raven snickers and all but bounces over to the newsstand display, looking through the titles. Moira follows, shaking her head. Jesus. She's a fully grown woman. She needs to get her shit together.

She's piling some newspapers into her arms when the little old man behind the counter leans over towards her.

"He wasn't bothering you girls, was he?" he asks.

Moira blinks, but before she can answer, an old woman appears behind him and hits him with a dishtowel.

"Frank!" she says. "He's a nice boy. Comes in every day since he moved to town, right when we open. Buys all the papers and a cup of coffee."

Since he came to town. Come to think of it, Nate hadn't mentioned anything about living in town at all when they were out.

"Oh, we're friends but--is he new to town? He hasn't mentioned," Moira says with her best clueless smile.

"He's been here about a month," the old woman says. "Looking to get out of the city, he says. Likes the work better here, though I don't know that I could keep that schedule. Up all night like that, I mean. Don't listen to Frank, he's very nice. He helps with the lifting some mornings, if he's around."

"Well, that sounds very decent of him," Moira says. She pays for the papers and waits as Raven pays for her magazines, still turning the new information over in her head. It means something, but she's too close to see it. She needs more pieces of the puzzle before she can figure out how to put them together.

She's still thinking about it once they leave the store and cross to the post office. She doesn't really need to check her box again, but she's on autopilot and it gives her something to do before getting into the car and facing Raven's interrogation. The box is empty, but the man at the counter waves them down before they can leave.

"More of those boxes for you," he says. "You really should put a real address on them."

"I'm not the one sending them," Moira points out, but the man ignores her and disappears into the back room again.

"What is he talking about?" Raven asks.

"Oh, these boxes," Moira says. "Hank's stuff. There were a few of them the last time we came in."

"What's in them?" Raven asks.

"Hell if I know," Moira says. "Cerebro parts?"

"I don't remember him working on Cerebro lately," Raven says. "Mostly he's been focused on the fence thing. We're having trouble getting it to stay upright. It works more like a net." She mimes a net falling with her hands. "Not exactly useful for keeping people out."

"Well, it's something else, then," Moira says. "You really should tell him to at least use an alias if he doesn't want his real name on things coming to the house."

"I'll mention it," Raven says as the man returns with two boxes on a cart.

"Is it just you girls?" he asks. "Can you get help? You can't have the dolly."

"We'll be fine," Moira says, and then hopes it's true as she crouches down to lift the larger of the two. It's hefty, but not impossible to carry. Raven's not quite as strong as she is in her natural form, but she's strong enough to carry the other, shooting a glare at the post office worker. "If any more come, just save us the trip and bring them up with the rest of the mail, could you please?"

"Fine," he says. "But you're the ones who have to deal with them if they don't turn out to be yours."

"It's a risk we'll take," Moira says, and leads Raven out before the man can engage them in any further condescending conversation.

"Of course we're left to do Hank's heavy lifting," Raven mutters as they trek back to the car.

"He's the brains and we're the brawn," Moira says. "You can bitch about it to him later. Come on--we're going to be later for afternoon lessons."

Raven picks up the pace, leading the way back to the car. Moira tries to forget about Nate Foley as she follows, tries to focus on the things she needs to do for the rest of the day, but something about him sticks with her the entire drive back to the mansion and beyond.

***

The sunset is beautiful from the balcony. Charles wishes he wasn't watching it by himself.

It's his own fault. He should have said something. If he had made his intentions clear, he's sure Erik would have forgone whatever horrid experiment he's doing with Moira and her service weapon in the bunker. The conversation spiraled out of his control so quickly, though--one moment he was telling Erik that he thought it best if they skip the formal dinner for the evening and let the children fend for themselves on leftovers, the next Erik was readily agreeing because it would give him some time to try something he'd been thinking about with the firing of bullets. The dinner invitation had died on Charles' lips, replaced with a forced smile.

He rubs his forehead, now, as he sits on the balcony and stares out at the estate. He wanted to make up for last night--for all the nights, really, for his poor attitude these past few days, for his irritability and exhaustion. He thought a night with just the two of them--a quiet dinner, a game of chess, a drink--would be a welcome respite. He wonders, sometimes, if things would have been different if they acted earlier, if they had acknowledged the first bloom of their romance in Miami or at the CIA facility or on the road together. He wonders if they would have had the time for a proper courtship, or as proper as one could get in their unique position. He would have liked to have Erik to himself for just a while, to be able to spend time with him without the constant fear and irritation of being pulled away to see to something else.

He sighs. There's no point in speculating. Especially since he's certain that Erik would have forgone his evening with Moira if only Charles asked, but of course he didn't. He never knows how to handle these things. For all that he's smooth and practiced with luring people into his bed, he can't say he's ever kept someone there for long. He's never wanted to. He dated briefly during his undergraduate studies, but there was no one who could hold his interest. It was easier to throw himself into his work, into spending time with Raven, into picking up strangers--he enjoyed those things and they never felt forced.

Nothing with Erik feels forced. Everything about Erik, from the moment he first touched Erik's mind, has left him dizzy and lightheaded and desperate for more. He should be scared, or maybe hesitant, but he's never been scared of Erik and he sees no reason to start now.

(Erik, he knows, would balk at this. Erik thinks Charles should be scared of him, but that's only because Erik is still distantly scared of himself.)

He rubs his eyes and pulls a blanket more tightly around his shoulders. He drank most of a bottle of wine on his own and only picked at the sandwich he made for dinner. It was a poor choice--wine always makes him sleepy and there's still work to be done tonight. He considers giving in, returning to the bedroom, kicking off his shoes, and crawling under the covers, but he really shouldn't. He's been so tired lately, plagued by nightmares and headaches and anxiety, all of which frustrate him. There's no source that he can find. He's always tried to be pragmatic about his own mind--it's hard not to be after spending his childhood working hard to separate his thoughts from the thoughts of everyone else. For all that he's awful at reading other people without his telepathy, he's always known his own mind. He doesn't know why that ability is failing him now.

He can't let himself sleep. And he's not getting anything done by sitting here being morose. It's his own fault he's alone, and instead of moping, he needs to go downstairs, grade papers, fill out paperwork, and maybe have a frank discussion with Erik about the things he wants.

A boost of energy comes with that decision, just enough to get him up and off the balcony. He walks through the suite and bypasses the bedroom and once he's closed the door behind him, it's easier to head downstairs to his office.

He catalogs the house as he settles at his desk, the absent check-in he performs every few hours. Raven, Angel, and Sean are watching television with Ororo. Jean is in her bedroom, writing a letter to her parents. Alex and Scott are in the library, playing a board game, and Hank is in his lab. Erik and Moira remain in the bunker. Whatever they're doing, they both find it quite funny, and he shuts down the link before he's tempted to spy.

He knows that Erik and Moira have no designs on each other. He knows Erik generally doesn't find himself attracted to women at all and holds a certain amount of disdain for humans--he chastises Sean with some frequency for his crush on a young girl who works at the grocery store, claiming Sean should seek out his own kind. Moira, too, is uninterested in Erik beyond friendship, save for an occasional passing appreciation for his physique.

It's not suspicion or insecurity, then. He knows there's nothing romantic brewing there. He can't stop the way his stomach knots up, the way he feels left out and forgotten. He shouldn't. He has plenty of private conversations with both of them. He and Moira go out and do things together that don't interest Erik and he and Erik certainly have a life that doesn't include Moira. He needs to allow them the same courtesy.

He needs to...think about something else.

He focuses on paperwork, on writing out his proposed curricula and citing books and resources. He takes down a calendar and begins to plot out the rest of the year, wondering if they can't persuade a few of the adults mutants who turned down CIA recruitment to come back and teach instead. The Cerebro prototype is near completion, and, with Erik's abilities, it shouldn't take long to build the actual room. If they spend June and July recruiting potential students and teachers, they could have all of August to sort out the administrivia, provided the renovations can be completed in their absence.

It will be a fast-paced summer, to be sure, but Charles doesn't want to wait another year to get the school started properly.

There's a pile of papers that he needs to grade, but he's in a much better mood after planning and scheduling, so he allows himself a break and opens a second bottle of wine. He forgets, sometimes, that he does actually quite enjoy having time to himself. He's been so wrapped up in Erik, in being with him and wanting to be with him, that actually enjoying the time that they're apart hasn't occurred to him. He tries to let his anxieties slip away as he sips from his glass and stares into the fire. It will be summer soon enough, and maybe he and Erik can take this second recruitment trip as time to themselves. It certainly won't be an exact duplicate of the last--they'll be flying under the radar, for one, but they've both changed immensely. That doesn't mean they can't take advantage of it, however.

The thought settles him somewhat, and he drains the rest of his glass. Maybe he should go find Erik now and propose the idea to him.

Erik's in the kitchen, making up for the dinner he skipped. Charles sets out to find him and sends a little tendril of greeting to let Erik know he's coming. He pauses, however, outside of the library.

The board game from earlier has been put away and stashed back in the cabinet. Scott is gone--a quick sweep of the house puts him in the den watching television with the others--but Alex is still sitting on the couch, leaning forward with his head dipping down between his knees. His despair is palpable.

His past attempts to speak to Alex about Darwin have been unsuccessful, but that doesn't stop him from lingering in the doorway now.

"He wouldn't want you to carry so much sadness, Alex," he says quietly. "You must know that."

Alex jerks upright. His expression is hard to read, but it's certainly not happy.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Alex snaps.

"Armando cared about you deeply," Charles says. "I know he did. And his sacrifice--"

"You weren't there!" Alex says. "You don't know anything about it."

The accusation stings. He wasn't there. Nor were Erik and Moira. They left the children alone without anyone they trusted or knew, and look what happened. It was his decision. He told Moira he and Erik would go with her, even though the children weren't ready. Erik wouldn't have budged, would have gone no matter what for a chance at Shaw, but if Charles stayed maybe some of the damage could have been prevented. Shaw wore the helmet, but his associates had no such protection. Maybe Darwin would still be alive. Maybe Angel never would have left them.

But there's no way to be sure. And Charles has to live with his choices. They all do.

"I know you think it's your fault," Charles says. "But, Alex, there was no way of knowing what Shaw was capable of, what he would do. Erik told me he didn't hurt other mutants. We shouldn't have taken him at his word."

"Yeah, you shouldn't have," Alex says, and gets to his feet.

"Alex," Charles tries to say, but Alex brushes past him and into the hall. Charles rushes after, crashing into Alex's back when he stops abruptly.

He's staring straight ahead and when Charles follows his sightline, all the breath leaves his body.

Darwin. It's Darwin.

He's misty--ephemeral. He's the ghost, he's the bloody ghost that everyone has been seeing and he's five feet in front of them, a hazy grey outline that can't be anyone else.

Charles doesn't know what to do. He can't find words--he can barely move. Armando's lips are moving; he's saying something, though Charles can't decipher what it is and where his mind should be is just static that overwhelms his senses. He's frozen.

Scott screams.

Charles wrenches his gaze violently from where the apparition is to Scott, standing at the other end of the hall, obviously looking for his brother. When Charles looks back, Darwin is gone. Alex is still unmoving, and there are footsteps rushing towards them.

"Scott," Charles tries to say, but his voice breaks. "Scott--"

Erik's the first to run into the hall, nearly knocking Scott over in the process. Moira and Raven are right behind him.

"What the hell is going on?" Erik asks.

Before Charles can make up some lie, Scott says, "It's the ghost! I saw it, I saw the ghost! The ghost was right there!"

Erik immediately looks at Charles. He tries to school his expression into something authoritative, but he knows he just looks terrified. He clears his throat.

"There's--it wasn't--it wasn't anything," he says.

"It was!" Scott insists. "It was a ghost! The house is haunted!"

"It wasn't a ghost!" Charles snaps, with far less patience than he normally has for the children. "You're seeing things out of nothing. It was a trick of the light." He swallows past the lump in his throat. "If you'll excuse me."

He's not sure how he makes it back to his office without falling over. His legs feel like rubber and his shallow breaths reverberate in his head. He walks the whole way, though, and only once the door is closed does he collapse against the wall, chest heaving.

He couldn't have seen what he thought he saw. It had to be a mistake. He knows that ghosts aren't real. But his memory is sharp and he can see it all in vibrant detail. It was Armando. Armando's form was in the hallway. Armando, who is dead, who died in front of the eyes of the children. Charles has seen it in Raven's memory, in Hank's, in Sean's, in the dreams that keep Alex awake and pacing late in the night. Darwin is dead, but Charles just saw him.

It's only a few minutes after Charles' hasty retreat that the door to his office opens. He's not surprised to see Erik, who is immediately at his side, curling a hand around his elbow.

"Are you okay?" he asks. Charles nods hesitantly. "What happened?"

Charles was hoping that Erik wouldn't actually ask that.

"I...I don't know," he lies.

Erik narrows his eyes.

"You were right there," he says. "Whatever happened scared the hell out of you. And I know it wasn't a ghost."

Charles goes rigid. He doesn't mean to react, but his heart is still racing and he can't help it. Erik's gaze turns skeptical.

"It wasn't a ghost, Charles," Erik tells him flatly. "Ghosts aren't real."

"I saw...I know what I saw," Charles says. "I can't explain it. But there was something there."

Erik is doubtful and Erik is concerned and Erik is thinking about how Charles has been under a lot of stress lately, has been acting strangely, and Charles yanks himself out of Erik's grip.

"I'm not seeing things!" he insists. The tone is as close to anger as he's ever taken with Erik, and Erik raises his hands, a cautious barrier between the two of them.

"I never said you were," he says slowly.

"I know your opinions on the children's claims," Charles says. He crosses his arms and then uncrosses them and shoves his hands in his pockets. He's still shaking.

"Until recently, they were your opinions as well," Erik says.

"That may be so, but perhaps I was too quick to judge," Charles says. He's proud of how little his voice shakes. "Perhaps we both were."

Erik looks uneasy and a quick, desperate look into his mind tells Charles he's torn between thinking that Charles is attempting to apply a legitimacy to the earlier incidents in order to feel more confident in his own and thinking that if Charles has seen it, it must be true. Charles wants to be touched by the trust and respect there, but in this moment it will mean nothing if he can't get Erik to believe him.

"You're saying the house is haunted," Erik says flatly. Charles hesitates and licks his lips.

"Not...the house," he says.

Erik waits patiently for the explanation.

"I...the thing...the ghost...it's not someone who's ever been in the house," Charles says.

"You recognize it?" Erik asks.

Charles swallows again and nods. He holds Erik's gaze and says, "It's Armando. I saw Armando. I swear to it, Erik, he was right there."

Erik doesn't move. This time, Charles can't bring himself to read his mind.

"You've been tired, lately," Erik says. "Obviously something spooked you--"

"Yes!" Charles snaps, "It was the apparition in my hallway of a boy I thought dead!"

"I'm not saying you didn't see what you thought you saw," Erik says.

"That's exactly what you're saying!" Charles says. "I swear, I know it sounds like something out of a horror movie, but I saw Armando!"

Erik rubs his forehead and looks away. Charles sees the moment his gaze settles on the open bottle of wine.

"Have you been drinking?" Erik asks, turning back to Charles. Charles feels his face heat up.

"Yes, but that has nothing to do with it!" he says. "I had a glass of wine here and one or two with dinner, hours ago. A dinner by myself!" He doesn't mean to add that last part and immediately regrets it. Erik is confused at the abrupt change in topic, at the implication, and Charles doesn't want to talk about this. He wants to keep his little insecurities in his head where they belong.

"Charles--" Erik says, reaching for his arm, and Charles backs out of his reach.

"Don't touch me," he says. "Just--don't--I'm going to bed."

He flees the office with nothing approaching dignity and is halfway up the stairs before Erik calls after him.

He pretends he hasn't heard anything at all.

He's not crazy. He spent years in his childhood terrified that he was and he knows now that he's not. He really does hear voices, hear thoughts. It's not his imagination or in his head. Armando wasn't in his head either--Scott saw it and Alex saw it. There was something in that hallway with them. It wasn't some mass hallucination.

Then why was he so quick to snap at Scott? Why was he so quick to pretend otherwise? For god's sake, it's like being six years old all over again, lying to the doctors and saying he was fine, that he didn't know what they were thinking, all the while flinching as their thoughts of institutions and psychosis bombarded him.

He knows extraordinary things exist now. He knows that doctors don't have all the answers, and sometimes fantastic things can happen. He shouldn't let himself slip into old habits. He shouldn't have shouted at Scott. But Erik's skepticism weighs on him heavily, drowning out his good sense, and it's all he can do to crawl under the covers and hope that sleep takes him away from the doubt and shame.

He drifts, his mind spiraling outwards as it always does as he nods off, too loose to catch anything, brushing by everything, expanding and contracting and then it's dark and hot, so hot and humid and oppressive, beating down on him as he follows the trail. He sees the entrance, though--it's calling to him. It's been haunting his dreams and it's finally here and maybe he can get some peace.

The steps crumble under his feet, the doorway emits an unearthly red glow, but he goes faster and faster. He's so close. He just needs to hold it in his hands, touch it, know that it's real. That it's his. That it's a power no one can take from him.

He's inside now, and there, on the dais, it's more beautiful than he imagined and he need only reach out--

Charles hits the ground with a thump. He rolls over quickly, reaching out for--what? Blankets? What is he--

He's in the hallway. He's in a hallway on the far wing, to be exact, at the top of the stairs. He's lucky he fell forward, though he's not sure how he ended up here in the first place.

He rubs his eyes and rolls over until he's sitting up so he can lean against the bannister. A quick check of the house finds everyone in their beds, including Erik in the bed they share rather than the room he hasn't used in months. Small mercies, Charles thinks as he pulls himself back to his feet. He's still angry, but right now he's more confused and tired than anything else and he can't think of anywhere he'd rather be than back in bed, curled up against Erik.

He can try and figure out his sleepwalking in the morning.

***

An overcast sky awaits Erik when he rouses himself. He can hardly tell it's morning. It's fitting, really--the whole house has descended into a funk, the weather might as well match it.

Charles curled up against him during the night in stark contrast to how he went to sleep, lying all the way at the edge of the bed, as far from Erik's side as he could get. Erik's not sure if the new proximity means something or if Charles simply rolled over in the night without realizing it. He stares down at Charles for long moments that he should spend getting changed into his running clothes. He doesn't know what to think about what happened last night. Charles is one of the most logical people he's ever know, if not a little idealistic. He feels about science and scientists the way most people seem to feel about their gods. Answering questions is how he got started in genetics, Erik knows. He was hearing people's thoughts. No one believed him. So he read and read and finally found what he thought was the answer, right there in black and white, a rational explanation.

Perhaps Erik was out of line last night. Perhaps Charles had a rational explanation this time as well.

But Charles had been drinking and Charles hasn't been sleeping. He's been stiff and awkward these past few weeks, and it's been worse for the last few days. There's something going on, something on his mind that's thrown him off his game. It's entirely possible the "ghost" was a trick of the light that his mind jumped on as an outlet for the guilt Erik knows he feels about Darwin's death.

He hates doubting Charles. He hates it. He may disagree with Charles' philosophies and ideas for the future of their race, but Charles is a genius. Charles understands the building blocks of the world in a way that Erik doesn't and he has a gift that allows him to see people's true natures as well. Erik spent the last year following Charles with very little hesitation, trusting him. Trust is everything, and if Charles isn't himself, Erik can't help but question that unwavering trust.

He sighs and leans over, kissing Charles' forehead. Life was much easier when he kept his love locked up tight in his chest with no intention to gift it to anyone else in the world.

He forces himself out of bed and into sweats, detouring into the bathroom to splash some cold water on his face and stare at himself critically in the mirror. He and Charles need to have a discussion about all of this. He wonders if he should ask Moira to join them, to lend her practicality to the situation, but banishes the thought. He can't rely on Moira for everything. This is between Charles and Erik and if Erik can't work it out himself...well. Erik needs to work this out himself. He owes that much to Charles.

When he returns to the bedroom, hoping to retrieve his running shoes and slip out before it gets much later, Charles is propped up on his elbows. He looks exhausted, though he's slept through the night. Erik isn't prepared for this conversation. He stops where he stands.

"Good morning," Charles says. His voice sounds hoarse. He pulls himself all the way up so he's sitting in the middle of the bed, hair in disarray, expression wary. The blankets are twisted around him. He looks small and lost.

"Good morning," Erik replies. He doesn't move and, after a moment, adds, "Are we...are you...okay?"

Charles closes his eyes and breathes deeply. When he opens them again, he looks even more hesitant than before.

"I don't know," he admits. Erik can tell from his face how much that cost him. Charles, who needs to always be in control. Charles, who undermined his own kidnapping with civility, who, after saving the world and stopping a war, walked back into the house cheerfully issuing orders and getting the children settled.

Erik crosses to the bed slowly, giving Charles ample time to stop him. He sits on the edge of the bed. Charles doesn't move any closer. Erik remembers their discussion last night--argument, really. Don't touch me, Charles shouted, and that stung. It still stings now, knowing as he does that it came from a place of fear and panic and anger. Erik wants nothing more than to be close to Charles. For years, his life revolved around hating Klaus Schmidt. Now that Schmidt is gone, he finds his life revolving around his love for Charles Xavier. He's not sure it's any healthier than his obsession with revenge, but he didn't care then and he doesn't care now. He needs a purpose to survive. Charles is his purpose now.

"You should go," Charles says quietly, and Erik's insides freeze, his pulse quickens before Charles can hastily add, "No, no! Not--I meant you should go on your run before everyone else wakes up."

He calms incrementally. His breath is still coming fast as he stares at Charles, unmoving. It's Charles who gives in, crawling awkwardly down the bed until he's kneeling next to Erik.

"I don't know what to say to make you believe me," Charles says. He doesn't look up at Erik.

Erik doesn't know either--he wants to believe, desperately, but his better sense keeps winning out--so he stays silent. Charles looks up, a hair away from desperate, and Erik's hand comes up automatically, reaching out to lend any comfort he can manage. Charles allows the touch, as Erik's fingers curl around his jaw, cupping his cheek. He leans into it, but his eyes remain open and locked on Erik.

"Go for your run," Charles says as the silence drags onwards. Erik wishes he could fill it with reassurances, but he doesn't lie to Charles and he's not about to start. "We can talk later. After lessons."

He turns his head enough to kiss Erik's palm. Erik sighs, his shoulders slumping, and pulls Charles closer to kiss him properly. There's a tenderness there that belies the desperation. Erik wishes again he had words to offer Charles, comfort he could give beyond this, but if a kiss is all he can offer, he can make it count. He holds Charles close, strokes his hair and his cheek, tries to project his love and devotion where he can't project his faith. When their lips part, he rests his forehead against Charles', the fingers of both hands tangled in Charles' hair.

He wants to say You're everything I have, but he doesn't know if it will be enough.

"I'll see you for breakfast," he says. He doesn't know if it's the right thing to say, but Charles eases back and smiles sadly.

"Okay," Charles says.

It's hard for Erik to walk away, but he does.

He runs harder than usual. He has a difficult time clearing his mind, and with each step he gets angrier with himself. He second guesses everything he's said and done and hates himself for it. Things were strange but manageable yesterday. Today he feels like they're on the precipice of something he doesn't understand.

When he gets to the rose bushes on the far side of the house, he slows in his circle of the grounds. The damn windows are open again.

This is not the day to try Erik's patience.

He veers off his course and marches straight for the nearest entrance, a door to the servant's quarters down the length of the wall. He uses his power to slide the lock back and takes the hall at a jog. There's no one by the windows when he turns the corner, but they're most definitely open. A wave of his hand pulls them all shut with a thud and another slips the locks into place. He's seconds away from storming into the other side of the house and pulling all the children out of bed to shout at them when he hesitates.

He and Moira passed by these windows last night. They were closed, then. And, while they could have easily slipped by when he wasn't paying attention, the children were in the den watching television when they returned to the main house. They didn't leave, as far as Erik could tell, until the ruckus in the hallway, and after that, most of them went to bed. Erik stayed up, spent long hours reading and pacing and turning the whole thing over in his mind. He didn't think anyone went past, although they could have gone some back way.

It's enough to make him pause, though.

Charles said, last time, he hadn't detected anyone else on the grounds. Erik believes him, but he's also seen first hand that tools can be made to block telepathy. While he's certain that Shaw's helmet was destroyed, who's to say the Russians hadn't made another?

He moves quickly through the far wing, opening every door and peering through every room on the floor. Nothing seems out of place, though it's hard to tell for certain given how seldom they venture into this part of the house. There are mused sheets and tilted furniture, but nothing glaring, like an intruder or a suitcase or a fire in a fireplace. He almost attacks an awkward, headless suit of bulky red armor in an imposing study, but that's the closest he comes to finding a stranger. When he reaches the end of the hall, he goes out again and begins to jog around the grounds in larger circles, reaching out with his power for anything out of the ordinary. It's not easy--between the various garden sheds and Hank's laboratory, there's plenty of metal that he's unfamiliar with. He doesn't see further evidence of an intruder, though. To be honest, on an estate this size, he's not sure he knows where to begin to look. In situations like this, he's most often been the person doing the hiding.

He comes back to the house no less wary, though it doesn't seem like there's an immediate threat. Maybe Charles' previous assertion was right--it was the children sneaking around. There was certainly enough to gossip about last night; perhaps they wanted some privacy. Perhaps the heightened tension is making Erik quick to be on the defensive.

The downstairs is still quiet. A glance at the clock tells him that it's not yet seven, which is the usual wake-up time for the rest of the inhabitants of the house. He hears shuffling about in the kitchen, however, and turns that way. It's most likely Charles, and though Erik is no closer to finding the right words to say to him, he doesn't want to avoid him. He veers off from the staircase and heads in that direction instead.

It's not Charles inside, but Alex pouring coffee and looking as though he hasn't slept. Erik almost turns back, but Alex looks up at him and Erik remembers yesterday's breakfast conversation.

He walks slowly to the table and takes a seat.

"Hey," Alex says. There's a hoarse quality to his voice that makes Erik wonder how much he's slept.

"Good morning," Erik says. He doesn't know how to broach the topic, doesn't even know if it will be welcome. He wants to say something, though. He hadn't know, and while he certainly wouldn't have stepped aside in order to give Alex a shot at the revenge he deserved, they might have talked about it, at least.

Alex looks down at his plate and picks at his toast.

"Charles..." Erik starts to say, but he stops when Alex looks up at him. He clears his throat. "Charles told me about...you and Darwin."

Alex's eyes flash hard and cold before he looks back down at his toast.

"It's not of your fucking business," he says. "It was none of his either."

Erik ignores him.

"I'm sorry you couldn't avenge him yourself," he says. "It was my right to take Shaw's life, but I know you must wish you had the chance."

Alex looks up slowly, his mouth curved downward. He's not angry, though. Surprised, maybe. He looks at Erik for a long time.

"I don't know what I wanted," he finally says. "I thought I wanted Shaw dead, but now he is and that doesn't change anything. Darwin is still dead and it's still my fault."

Erik can picture it now, the strange haze of a third-hand memory. Charles had collected them from Hank and Sean and Raven, three separate angles of the same horrible series of events--Angel leaving, Darwin pretending to follow, Alex blasting Shaw and Shaw turning that energy on Darwin. It's not Alex's fault--he couldn't have known, none of them could have known. He can understand the guilt, though. If anything had happened to Charles....

"It wasn't your fault," Erik says. "That's what Shaw does. He takes your power and uses it to manipulate you, to do things to the people you love and make you think it's your fault. It's not. Shaw was the monster, the murderer. Not you."

"I wouldn't have done it," Alex says. "There were too many people around except--" He looks away again. Erik counts to five.

"Except?" he asks.

"Except Darwin said he could take it," Alex says quietly. "We'd been talking one night and he said we should go out and practice with my power. I told him I couldn't, it was dangerous, and he said he'd taken blasts that bad before and survived. That it was nothing. He could adapt to it. And I fucking believed him. I should have known better. That shit doesn't do anything but ruin people." He spreads his hands flat at the table and stares down at his fingers. Erik grapples for something to say.

"And now he's haunting me," Alex adds, his voice low. Erik almost doesn't catch it.

"Excuse me?" he says.

Alex raises his eyes, glares at Erik defiantly.

"Now," he says, "I'm seeing his fucking ghost around the house. Because I killed him. I have to live with this."

Erik stares at him.

"Do you mean--" It has to be a coincidence. "The thing you've been seeing...the ghost. You're telling me it's Darwin?"

Alex nods, his face still set in anger and maybe a little fear.

"All this time it's been Darwin?" Erik asks. "Last night?"

Alex nods again.

A coincidence. Alex and Charles both blame themselves for Darwin's death. Darwin is someone connected to all of this who's lost to them. It makes sense. It doesn't prove anything.

(Except, Erik's brain points out, If Charles was seeing ghosts in the house, wouldn't it make more sense for it to be the former inhabitants of the house?)

"What?" Alex asks.

"Nothing," Erik says distractedly. "Nothing. Darwin wouldn't--he wouldn't blame you. He wouldn't haunt you. Not like this, Alex. He wouldn't have wanted you to suffer. Not if he loved you."

The color drains from Alex's face. He looks grey and unwell.

"What would you know about it?" he asks, his voice suspiciously thick.

"About love?" Erik asks. "About loving someone so much you would die for them? Quite a bit, actually."

Alex stares at him for a long time.

"Right," he says quietly. "Okay."

Erik gets to his feet. He needs a shower. And he'd suddenly like very much to see Charles. He's done enough here.

The day is unremarkable after that. Everyone is suspiciously obedient and no one mentions ghosts or hauntings or any of the nonsense that's been spreading through the house as of late. It's possible the children are all gossiping in the corners whenever they're alone, but Erik doesn't care as long as he doesn't have to hear it. He's more concerned with Charles, anyway, who hasn't quite shaken the pale, drawn complexion he had when he woke up this morning.

He puts on a good show, though. He always does. If Erik hadn't spent his life training to see the minute shifts in a mark's expression, to read what's beneath the air of civility, he might miss it. Charles is exhausted and grey, but it doesn't affect his teaching, his interactions with the children. Erik spies him from afar, pointing down at a book in one of the large, airy classrooms, speaking with Ororo and Scott and Jean. Despite the pallor, he's talking excitedly, hands flitting about, illustrating his point as he speaks, eyes animated and bright and full of life.

Erik wants to press Charles against the wall and kiss him. He likes the idea of holding Charles down, holding him still, forcing him to funnel all of that endless energy into kissing Erik breathless, holding it there in his hands and feeling the life rush through Charles' veins. Charles is still here, he's still the same passionate, brilliant, infuriating man that Erik fell in love with. Whatever this is that's affecting him, they can work through it. It's nothing, really, compared to the things they've been through together.

They meet in the library hours later, after the day's lessons have concluded. Erik didn't plan it that way--he was going to do some grading and he prefers the library to the room he's taken as an office--but when he closes the door behind him and turns to the sofa, Charles is already lying there with a cold compress on his forehead.

"Don't go," Charles says before Erik can open the door again.

"Are you feeling well?" Erik asks, approaching the couch with slow, measured steps.

"Headache," Charles says. "I've had it all day."

"I can leave," Erik says. Should he turn off the lights? Shut the blinds?

"Please don't," Charles says. He struggles to sit up before Erik can stop him. He offers Erik a lopsided smile. "Just promise you won't shout at me and you'll be fine."

"I wouldn't," Erik says. That lie is easier than most, falls from his lips without pause, because he wants it to be true so badly.

He sits next to Charles on the couch. His forehead is cool when Erik brushes his fingers across it, but that's to be expected. It's the only way Erik knows how to check for fever outside of a thermometer, however, and fever would explain so much of the past few days.

"It would, wouldn't it?" Charles murmurs. "I almost wish I was sick. But no--too little sleep and too many people."

Ah. Erik's not unfamiliar with these headaches. Charles got them occasionally after using Cerebro for too long and after spending a few days in big cities while they were recruiting. He falls into the familiar pattern of easing Charles downward until his head is pillowed in Erik's lap and then begins to stroke his hair and massage his scalp.

"You're lovely," Charles murmurs on a sigh of relief. "You're so, so lovely."

"Shush," Erik says. "Don't think."

"Impossible," Charles replies, and Erik shushes him again.

It's hypnotic, taking care of Charles like this. Measured, repetitive movements, the even pace of Charles' breaths, the steady beat of his heart. His hair is so soft. Erik had done this for him in Chicago and New York, in Las Vegas and Los Angeles. They hadn't been lovers, not yet, but Charles was in pain and in a moment of weakness, Erik allowed himself to selfishly offer this comfort. Once he'd done it, it couldn't very well refuse each subsequent time.

It was torture. He has no idea how he managed to shield his want from Charles all those evenings, not when it was burning him up from the inside out. All he wanted in those moments was to allow his touch to follow the curve of Charles' skull down the dip of his neck and through the valley of his back, to press kisses to the delicate pale skin of his forehead and temples, to take Charles into his arms and soothe the pain with more intimate touches.

He realizes, suddenly, that he has permission to do those things, now. There's nothing to hide anymore.

He brushes his thumb against the nape of Charles' neck, scrubs through the short hairs there. Charles shivers at his touch. He lets his fingers slide through Charles' hair again, pressing against his scalp and dragging down against his neck. He feels Charles swallow.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs, lifting his hand. "I can stop."

"No," Charles says. "Don't. Keep--you're fine."

Erik trails his fingertips up along the side of Charles' face. He traces his ear, brushing the soft, fragile shell as Charles shudders beneath his touch, then sweeps over Charles' temple and massages it gently. The hair at the edge of Charles' brow is so soft and smooth that it makes Erik shudder and realize, abruptly, that this has moved beyond comfort and into a languorous sort of foreplay. Charles' pulse is quick at his temples and it quickens further as Erik moves downwards, tracing the column of his throat and sliding his finger into the open V of Charles' collar to brush his collarbone.

He stares down at Charles and watches his skin flush under Erik's hands. He follows the movement of his own fingers back up Charles' throat and doesn't miss the minute shivers it brings out in him. He brushes Charles' parted lips with his thumb. Erik loves Charles' mouth, his smile, his lips and the way they look when he's biting the lower one coyly or in concentration or confusion. He loves how they look when they've been abused by Erik's mouth, nipped at and kissed until they're an even brighter red. He touches the freckles scattered across Charles' face, the ones he only gets to study when Charles is asleep and can't protest Erik's fascination. He traces the two large, asymmetrical ones on the bridge of his nose, then trails up to brush across his closed eyelids. His eyelashes are a dark shadow on the pale of his face and they whisper a kiss against the pad of Erik's thumb, a barely there touch that hitches Charles' breath.

He doesn't think he'll ever get tired of just looking at Charles. He knows, objectively, that there are men who are more attractive. There are men, even, in Erik's past whose bodies were better sculpted, whose features were more classically beautiful. Erik can't imagine how, though. His mind has been rewired. He looks at Charles, at his imperfections, and sees only beauty. His freckles, his slightly crooked teeth, his undefined stomach--they're quirks that fascinate Erik, that make Charles more real to him, more breathtaking. His assets are even better--the curve of his mouth, his square, agile hands. Charles' eyes could stop traffic. They've stopped Erik in his tracks more than once.

His eyes open now, staring up at Erik, the pupils large in the mix of low light and budding arousal. Erik pulls his hand back, abruptly embarrassed that he's turned this comfort into something else at a time when Charles hasn't asked for it.

"I didn't mean to start something you're not up to finishing," Erik says softly.

"It's a little late for that," Charles replies. His voice is soft and almost sleepy, but his eyes pin Erik down, hot and piercing.

"I can stop," Erik says, brushing his hand over Charles' hair.

"Don't you dare," Charles says. He reaches up and curls his arm around Erik's neck, using the movement as leverage to lift himself. Before Erik can react, Charles is sitting on his lap and pulling him forward for a kiss.

Charles keeps him close, threading his fingers into Erik's hair and holding him still. There's something fragile about this moment, something small and contained. Their kisses are fierce and desperate, but quiet. There have been nights they've ruined furniture and each other, but in the fading light of the late afternoon, Erik thinks this is going to be something different.

Charles tips his head back, exposing his throat, and Erik is careful, careful as he presses kisses downward. He cradles Charles' head, mindful of his headache, breathing in deep lungfuls of the scent of Charles' skin and cologne. His skin is warm--hot, really, where Erik's face is pressed up against it. They should be talking, he knows they should be talking, but this is so much easier. He's his most truthful in this, in laying his hands on Charles' body, communicating truths through touch. He kisses Charles' throat, breathes against him, nuzzles the space behind his ear to coax out the high, stuttering gasps that Erik loves so much.

"Erik."

It's so soft, so quiet that Erik would think it was inside his head if he couldn't feel the vibration in Charles' throat.

"Let me," Erik says, the words raw in his throat. "Sssh. Just--"

He doesn't want to talk. He raises his head and presses another kiss to Charles' mouth, then another and another. He wraps his arms around Charles tightly and shifts them around, twisting until Charles is once again lying on the couch with Erik resting on top of him. Charles is biting his lip. His cheeks are flushed and he slides his hands into Erik's hair, dragging him down and kissing him hard and then harder, his hands curling into fists and pulling exquisitely at the hair caught between them. Erik makes a sound low in his throat and begins unbuttoning Charles' shirt.

He kisses the edge of Charles' jaw, the humid curve of his neck. He resists the urge to leave marks, although he wants to. He always wants to. He wants to leave evidence of himself all over Charles' body so that Charles knows. So that he understands what he means to Erik, how precious he is. So that he never has reason to question it, so that his if he ever worries otherwise, he can be reminded. He's all Erik has and Erik doesn't want him to ever doubt it.

He doesn't mark today. He wants to give Charles gentle, soft, quiet things. He wants to soothe and mend. He wants to take care of Charles because it's an opportunity that presents itself so rarely--Charles is the strong one, the one with the plan, the mentor around whom they all flock. Charles is always in control, and Erik would like, just for this moment, to take some of that burden if he can.

He licks Charles' collarbone, noses his sternum and runs his hands over Charles' chest and stomach. The muscles vibrate under his fingers and he can feel the breath Charles takes in, can tell his intention to speak. He sends a wordless warning, a request for silence that's in feelings and impressions rather than fully formed words. The reply is similarly formed, a mix of emotions that Erik can't identify and one that's bright and clear, pulsing between them. He kisses the base of Charles' breastbone and flicks a nipple with his thumb, wishing he could catch Charles' choked off gasps in his mouth, settling for for moving his mouth further down instead.

Charles' hands are still in his hair, squeezing but not pushing him in any particular direction. The pinpricks of pain across his scalp are going straight to his cock, but he ignores them, concentrates on the slope of Charles' stomach, the noises he makes, the way his skin shakes beneath Erik's hands and lips. His heavy breaths and the ticking of the grandfather clock fill the room and his emotions fill Erik's head, rolling over his usual shields and surrounding Erik on all sides. It's almost cheating, doing it this way, knowing exactly what Charles wants, exactly where to touch him, except that Erik already knows. He's fluent in this, like a foreign tongue and he's just as precise as he is when he's twisting the vowels of a distant land past his lips. He knows how to please Charles, what each touch and breath and brush of the skin will do. He knows to pass his thumb over Charles' navel as he unbuttons Charles' trousers. He knows to press his nose into the crease of Charles' groin, to run his nails down Charles' powerful thighs. He knows, when he pulls Charles' shorts away, exactly how to handle Charles' cock.

Charles sighs above him, choking off anything further in deference to the silence. His nails dig into Erik's scalp. Erik looks up at him, wild-eyed, flushed, shaking and shocked and thinks that he's never been more perfect than he is in this moment, that he'll never be this perfect again until the next time Erik is holding him on the edge of pleasure and watching him shake apart.

If he wasn't sure in a million other ways that he loved Charles, this would be proof--he's never taken such joy out of someone else's pleasure before. He's never been so content to get someone else off with no thought to himself.

"Sssssh," he murmurs at the strangled moan that slips out of Charles when Erik curls a hand around his cock. "Sssssh." Charles closes his mouth, biting down on his lower lip and staring at Erik with eyes that are so wide and so blue that Erik will believe anything he says, will do anything he asks.

He doesn't say anything, though. Not with words. Not even when Erik takes the head of his cock into his mouth.

His feelings, though--Erik's mind spins outwards, wrapped in Charles, their thoughts seeping into each other. They've only done this a few times and only at night in their bed. It's almost surreal in the daytime, even in the fading light of late afternoon. Every touch and breath resonates, every beat of Charles' heart. Charles feels so much, so very much, and it would be suffocating if it was anyone else, the very weight of that emotion, but it's Charles, so it's safe. It's heady, even, twisting in Erik's chest, bubbling through his veins. He holds onto Charles' cock with one hand as he sucks almost gently--still with drive to pull the orgasm out of him, but with none of the edge. The other hand Erik raises to his own head, curling around one of Charles' hands where it's buried in his hair.

It's not long after that. He can feel it. The light in Charles' eyes changes. It goes distant and tender and glassy while Charles' mind lights and lights and lights. It's brilliant and blinding in a way that has nothing and everything to do with with Erik's vision. It crests in sparks, in warmth and anticipation and then everything is white and clean and clear and sweet and Charles is coming and maybe Erik is too because every nerve ending is alight.

When he opens his eyes again, he's still holding Charles' hand.

Charles' eyes are closed, his chest heaving with each breath. His bare skin is pleasantly pink and his taste is lingering in Erik's mouth. His thoughts are calm and receding and it hurts Erik to feel them go, even though he knows it's for the best.

Charles opens his eyes. He doesn't open his mouth; he doesn't have to. Erik can see the request plain as day, can feel the echoes of it through the places where their minds are still touching, and he tucks Charles back in his pants and crawls up the sofa to hold him. Erik's own pants are damp and sticky, but it's a distant concern and far less important than the slow, weighty kisses Charles is pressing against his lips.

They need to talk, but it can wait. As long as they still have this feeling to pull around them like a cocoon, nothing is broken yet. Their conversation will keep until morning.

***

Moira stares at her reflection in the mirror, frowning. Her hair and make-up are immaculate. Her dress and pearls look fine. She goes over everything in her head, wondering if the dress is too demure. It's grey with long sleeves and a high collar. The pattern is modern, but is the cut too frumpy? Does she look like a Sunday school teacher? Of course, Mary McDonald is supposed to be a teacher. Maybe it's right for Mary McDonald and just wrong for Moira MacTaggert. Maybe she should change into something else. Maybe she should do something with her hair.

She turns away from the mirror with a frustrated grunt. She's not sure where these pre-date jitters came from, but she'd like them to go away. There's no need for her to get so caught up in what she looks like or how she's dressed. This isn't her. She's not going on this date, her alias is.

It's an old trick that worked wonders the first few times she worked undercover--if she got nervous, she just reminded herself that Moira MacTaggert wasn't the one walking into danger or trying to seduce a stranger. By the third or fourth time she was smiling her way into secret meetings, she didn't even need the pep talk, but maybe it's time to bring it back. It's not Moira MacTaggert, it's Mary McDonald.

Except it doesn't hold quite the same truth--there's no long game here. There's no mission. This is her, reaching out to form a connection with someone, even if that reach is once-removed. This should be Moira MacTaggert, and that's the problem.

Well, one of the problems. The other would be Nate's too-practiced stories, his vague tales about his life that sound perfectly fine until you scrutinize them and realize he's not actually shared any real information. She can't shake the odd feeling she gets around him, and it could be nerves or it could be instincts or it could be encroaching insanity from prolonged exposure to too many teenagers and a couple firmly in the honeymoon phase of their relationship.

Worrying isn't going to change anything now. She needs to suck it up and go on this date. Afterwards, she can come home, pour herself a large glass of wine, and decide whether it's worth continuing the charade with the intention of pulling Nate into the loop one day or whether she should just give up and hope that they hire another single, available teacher with a good sense of humor, a healthy respect for women, and overlapping interests.

Or, more feasibly, remain a single widow for the rest of her life.

"Stop being a downer, MacTaggert," she tells herself, turning around to check her hair one more time before forcibly removing herself from the mirror and taking her coat and purse downstairs.

She spies Jean and Scott doing homework in the den while Ororo builds something out of clay on the other side of the room. Alex is with them, reading, while Sean mutters to himself and picks at math problems. She's looking for Charles and Erik, though, so she leaves the children to their tasks and heads towards the the library that Erik prefers.

"I wouldn't," Raven says before she can put her hand on the door.

"What's wrong?" she asks.

"Well, I don't know for sure, but Charles and Erik have been in there since lessons ended and Sean reports there were 'noises.'" She raises her fingers in air quotes and Moira rolls her eyes.

"Well," she says, "I'm leaving for my date. Let them know if they ever decide to come out, will you?"

She heads towards the door, Raven jogging to catch up, eyes alight.

"Oh!" Raven says. "Right! Should we bother waiting up?" She smirks at Moira, her yellow eyes glinting.

"I'll see you later," Moira says. It's probably best not to actually answer that if she doesn't want to incriminate herself. "If something comes up, have Charles give me a shout."

"Will do!" Raven says.

Moira pulls open the door and nearly trips over a large cardboard box with the day's mail neatly on top of it.

"Jesus," she says.

"What's that?" Raven asks. Moira lifts the letters and hands them to Raven, then peers at the address.

"Looks like it's another one of Hank's nameless boxes," Moira says. "Could you tell him to quit it?"

"I already did," Raven says. She leans over and picks up the box easily. "He said they weren't his. There were just a bunch of weird metal half-cylinders in them. He brought them back up to the house to see whose they were. I'll have to ask him if he ever figured it out."

"Fine," Moira says. "Just pass that on to whomever they belong to--have them at least use an alias. Anyway, I've gotta go, I'm running late."

She's early, actually--she had hoped to kill some time arguing with Erik or avoiding talking about her feelings with Charles. She's supposed to meet Nate for six and now it will barely be five by the time she gets into town. Luckily, she's always prepared with a book and skilled in the art of hiding in plain sight.

She picks the laundromat because it has the best vantage point on the street, a direct sightline down either way and into the alley catty corner. It's busy enough that one more person isn't going to stand out, but the only noise is the tumbling of washers and dryers and no one will awkwardly try to chat her up.

She alternates reading and watching the coming and goings of the block, one eye on the clock, trying, still, to keep her nerves in check. There's no reason to be nervous. She's charming and funny and smart and Nate already likes her. He might not know her name or what she really does, but the rest of it is her, isn't it?

She's staring at her book, trying to parse the words when there's an unexpected tap on her shoulder. She prepares a bland smile, ready to blow off whoever dares to bother her, and she's honestly surprised to come face to face with Nate and not a needy stranger.

"Hey," he says.

"Hi," she says. "I--" She glances at the clock. He's twenty minutes early. "You're early."

"Jitters," he said. "I thought I'd come early and scope the place out. You too, I see."

"Yeah," Moira says. Then, "How did you find me?"

"It's the same place I would have picked," Nate says. He glances out the window, down the streets and at the alley, then around the quietly milling patrons wandering in and out, unremarkable and keeping to themselves. "I, uh, like the smell of clean laundry," he adds.

Moira nods slowly.

"Me too," she says. It's not even a lie.

"Well," Nate says. He offers her his arm. "Shall we?"

It's the same restaurant as last time, but Moira doesn't mind. She likes it, in fact. She'd said to Nate last time that it was one of her favorite places in town, family-owned and less snooty than some of the other options, but still private enough to hold quiet conversations. The food is good, the wait staff is polite, and, most importantly, when they rented out the back room last month for Raven's birthday, no one had commented or been shocked by their motley, mixed-race group of adults and teenagers and children, including Hank who kept a trench coat, gloves, and hat on the whole time, ducking his head whenever the waitress reappeared.

She appreciates people who don't cause trouble when no one is asking for it.

She wonders if that's why Nate likes it. Sure, the people in town like to think they're just an extension of New York City, that racism is a product of the backwards South and that New Yorkers are Above That Nonsense, but that doesn't keep them from displaying their own personal prejudices, laws or no.

They have a lovely dinner in the back corner, and the wine and candlelight melt away most of Moira's stress. She's still on alert--she's always on alert, she can't turn that part of her brain off--but it's easier to lean forward across the table, to smile and tell the kind of elaborate stories from her childhood that give away no identifying details, but are meaningful and fun to share. Nate counters with some of his own, and it's really no time at all until the waitress is dropping their check off at the table.

Moira glances at her watch. It's nearly eight thirty. They've been at dinner for two and a half hours.

She's not quite ready to go home yet.

Something of it must show on her face, or maybe Nate's just thinking the same thing. Either way, he excuses himself from the table and reappears a few minutes later with a bottle of wine and two glasses.

"The glasses are on loan," he says. "So you have to agree to a third date so I can bring them back."

"Bring them back?" Moira asks, frowning.

"Yep," Nate says. "Get your coat."

They leave the restaurant and cross the street, walking past the shops that are closed for the evening, around the corner from the post office, and to the gates to the park. The park closes at sunset and there's a gate that's bolted shut to reflect that, but it's only waist high. Nate hands Moira the wine and glasses and easily scales it.

"Come on," he says. "Do you need a hand?"

Moira very much does not need a hand, though a part of her appreciates that he asked. She's a pro at breaking into places in high heels and elaborate dresses, so doing it in flats and a day dress isn't difficult at all. She returns the wine and glasses to Nate and hoists herself over the fence in one fluid motion. The look Nate gives her in return is a little hot.

"Nice moves," he says.

"Thanks," she replies.

Nate leads her down to the lake, slowing in front of a picnic table with a lovely view of the water and the surrounding vegetation. It's chilly, but the stars are bright and the waning moon is still large in the sky. Distantly, on a hill over the tops of the trees, she can see what she thinks is the very tip of one of the turrets of the Xavier mansion. It's a pretty picture. Moira says so when she sits down on the bench, leaning her back against the table and looking out at the water while Nate pours the wine.

"It is," he says. "I spend a lot of time sitting here, thinking. Usually there are a lot more kids running around and people walking their dogs, but it's nice then, too. Not as nice as this, but beggars can't be choosers."

He hands Moira a glass and then settles on the table, his feet resting on the bench so his calf is pressed against her arm.

"Shouldn't you be sleeping during the day if you're going to be up foiling criminals all night?" she asks, nudging his thigh with her shoulder.

"I never sleep," he quips, but something about the way he says it doesn't sound entirely like a joke.

"I don't sleep much either," she admits. "More now than I used to, I guess. The routine of the school is a bit calmer."

"Living on site, you mean?" he asks her, and she can't believe she almost let that slip.

"Yeah," she says. "I wasn't commuting all that far before, but the whole rigamarole of waking up, getting ready, eating breakfast, making coffee--it's a lot easier when you just need to get dressed and get downstairs before the food is gone."

"I feel that," Nate says. He's quiet, though, still staring out across the water. "I was in the army. Before this, I mean. You get used to sleeping only when you need it and only when you can. Compared to that, watching over a bank in a sunny rich suburb is nothing."

"Seems like a weird career choice, then," Moira says. "I'd have thought you'd be bored."

"I am," Nate agrees. "But I go where the work sends me. It's a steady job and the pay is good. It leaves me lots of free time to hang around post offices talking to pretty ladies."

"Oh, I see," she says, leaning back to grin up at him. "I'm just one in a long line, then."

"Oh no," Nate says. "You are definitely one of a kind. I don't know that I've ever met a woman like you before."

She wants to say, If you think Mary McDonald is one of a kind, you should see Moira MacTaggert, but there's something about the way he says it, like he is honestly impressed. She can't imagine why. Misgivings aside, does she really want to date someone who thinks a school teacher from South Carolina is that impressive?

"I'll drink to that," she says instead, and holds up her glass. Nate clicks his against hers and they both take long sips. Nate shifts on the table and gets up, moving to sit next to Moira on the bench.

"My ma would've liked it," he says. "The security guard thing, I mean. She hated the army. Hated it when I was there, hated it when I came home. She wanted me to have a nice, boring job. And I loved her, I did, but boring's not in my blood."

It's not in mine, either, she doesn't say. He looks pensive. He looks...different than he sometimes looks when he's telling her stories about the bank or about his life in New York prior to moving here.

She leans against him. "There are perks to a boring life," she says. "More time to go out and break all sorts of town ordinances in order to drink wine in a public park late at night."

"It's true," he says. "Maybe Ma was on to something." He glances down at her. They're very close now, pressed together all along one side.

"You should always listen to your mother," Moira tells him gravely, voice pitched low in the small space between them. She can feel his breath against her cheek.

"My mother would tell me not to kiss a girl until the third date," he says. The timbre of his voice sends the familiar low heat of attraction curling through her, attraction with intent, lust and anticipation and adrenaline.

"Well," she murmurs, "maybe not always."

He tastes like wine and tomato sauce and his lips are more gentle than she expects. He's not wearing gloves, and his hands are cold when they slide into her hair, but she doesn't mind. Not at all.

She's still not sure she has a handle on Nate Foley, but it wouldn't hurt to agree to one more date. Purely for curiosity's sake. Just to solve the puzzle.

Not that she's in a rush to finish this one just yet.

***

A shower before dinner will undoubtedly give them away, but Charles feels better afterwards. The hot water and steam clear his head, and Erik pressed against his back, sweetly devout and kissing the nape of his neck, is a welcome escape. They haven't had the conversation they need to have, but Charles appreciates the affirmation present in every kiss, in every touch of Erik's hands. He can repress with the best of them, and it's easy to ignore his insistent memory in the warm light of the bathroom, to pretend he didn't see anything, that everything's fine.

"You're lucky you're my brother," Raven says to him when he finally joins her for dinner prep, Erik walking with him all the way to the kitchen and kissing him before leaving for the library.

"Of course I am," Charles says magnanimously, kissing her cheek. "You're a wonderful sister and I adore you."

She preens for a second, thrown off guard, but still says, "I meant because if you were anyone else I would be blindingly jealous of the hot guy who follows you around and dotes on you whenever you're sad."

His good mood quells the embarrassment and he kisses her cheek again.

"You're a lovely young woman," he says. "I'm sure one day you too will be able to trick a strapping young man into catering to your every whim."

She rolls her eyes, as he intended, and they work side-by-side preparing dinner. It's a joke, of course, one that cloaks the hardships he knows Raven faces with regards to her appearance. Charles is terrible at reading people without his telepathy, truly awful at it, and he'd been so nervous in those years after Raven's demand that he stop reading her mind, so frightful he'd make a mistake, that reading her became even more difficult. He never really understood, not until the terrible, embarrassing conversation they had after the mess in Cuba, the depth of Raven's insecurity, the pain she lived with every day, the fear that she was too grotesque to ever find companionship, that Charles would grow out of her and leave her behind, that she'd once again be as alone as she was when he found her all those years ago.

There were a great deal of tears involved on both sides, and looking at her still hurts, sometimes. He should have seen it sooner, seen it without having it pointed out to him. He knows he only made it worse. She's hurt him too, of course--Raven knows him better than anyone and always aims for the maximum amount of damage. It's easier to forgive her than it is to forgive himself, however, even as they work at mending their relationship. He takes more care, tells her he loves her, treats her with more respect. She, in turn, allows him the same access to her mind that he has to everyone else's--namely that he can brush by her and read her moods, her feelings, her location, without delving into the content of her thoughts.

It's hard, but so very worth it, if only for moments like this, a cheerful hour spent in the kitchen, bantering and singing and laughing as they try their best not to completely ruin the very simple stew they're attempting to make for dinner.

Raven doesn't mention any of the unpleasantness of the night before. Charles wants to hope that it's because she's moved on and realized how silly it all is, but he's rather sure she's merely as desperate to keep the peace as he is. It's been a fraught few days.

He thinks the rest of the children must be of a similar mindset. Dinner is quiet and, despite the continued odd looks from Sean and Hank (and some new, more piercing glances directed at Erik by Alex), no one brings up hauntings, rule-breaking, or homosexuals. Angel compliments Charles and Raven on the stew, which makes Raven beam, and Sean and Scott retreat to the kitchen to clean up with no protest.

Charles makes the mistake of hoping that this means they're getting back to normal.

"Where are you off to?" he asks Erik as they wander away from the dining room, the children dispersing around them.

"I was planning on marking some papers this afternoon," Erik says. "Someone distracted me." He smiles as he says it, flashing all his teeth, looking smug and satisfied. Charles returns the smile.

"I could distract you again?" he suggests, and Erik pauses, assessing him for a moment.

"But could you really?" Erik asks, the challenge inherent in the lift of his eyebrows. Charles could never resist a challenge.

Neither of them should be shirking their responsibilities, especially not twice in one day, but Charles wants to keep that look on Erik's face for as long as he can manage. They're going to talk eventually about what Charles saw and what Erik believes and how Charles has been acting and what the future holds for them. The longer Charles can put off that humiliating conversation, the better. But more than that, even, Charles just feels good under Erik's hands. He feels happy. He'd like to hold onto that.

Charles, it turns out, is well up to the task of distracting Erik again. It's a wonderful way to spend the evening, curled tightly together beneath the blankets as it begins to rain outside, the gentle pitter-patter becoming steadily stronger. He puts all of his stress out of his mind and focuses on the sound of Erik's voice, the brush of his fingers as he counts the freckles on Charles' back and leaves kisses in their wake. The whole thing gives Charles the illusion that they're alone, wrapped up away from the rest of the world, free to spend the hours exploring the joys of their bodies and the depth of their love.

It's a pleasant thought to lull him to sleep.

And it is pleasant, at first. Warmth and color and light, the stars above and grass beneath his feet, wandering around on a cool summer evening, fireflies, someone near him and a hand in his own, a canopy of trees on a hot day, singing in another language over the cheerful noises of the city, and then the brown carpet twists into mud, into fallen leaves and branches and dust and those things lead to stone and he's standing right at the altar, holding the gem in his hands and then he's running, running, the trees whipping by.

He's going to be strong, stronger than anyone. He's going to finally put everything right. He deserves it, he deserves everything, not that know-it-all brat.

He holds it close to him, close to his chest, and he can feel the power, feel the heat searing through him and it hurts, it hurts, it hurts, the world is going red--

And wet? And, god, what--

"Charles!"

His eyes fly open, his breath stuck in his throat by a violent shiver. His upper arms hurt where Erik's fingers are digging into them. He's freezing and soaking wet. He's on the third floor balcony in his pajamas. It's pouring.

"What?" he manages to ask around another shiver.

"I've been shouting your name!" Erik says. He shakes Charles, hard. "What the hell is going on?"

"I--I don't know what you're--" Charles tries to say, but he shivers again. The wind picks up, battering them with more rain.

"No, Charles," Erik says, "there's something happening to you. Don't deny it, don't try and hide it, just talk to me!"

"I'm fine!" Charles says. It sounds hollow, even to his own ears. Erik's fingers are going to leave bruises.

"You've been sleepwalking when you sleep at all, you're acting strange, you're seeing things, you're projecting dreams--none of this is normal!" Erik says. "You've been avoiding Moira and me--"

"I'm not avoiding anyone!" Charles says quickly. "I'm not--there's nothing wrong!"

"That's bullshit!"

Charles is shaking and it's no longer just from the cold.

"Erik, can we please--"

Erik's not listening to him. Erik's barely present. He shakes Charles again.

"You could have killed yourself!" he shouts. "You could have walked right off that ledge! This is dangerous, Charles! You need help! This isn't normal!"

He wrenches himself away from Erik, staggering backwards and nearly slipping on the rain-slick stone tile. Erik couldn't know, doesn't mean that, but all Charles can hear is his mother hissing to his father, He needs help! That's not normal! while they stood in the office of yet another psychiatrist.

"I'm fine!" he shouts right back. "It's none of your bloody business anyway and--" Erik steps towards him. "Don't touch me!"

It cuts through the mask of anger on Erik's face, a slash of hurt and shock and Erik's mind is tying itself in knots because Charles is shaking apart, Charles needs help, something is wrong with Charles and all Erik wants is for him to be okay--

"There's nothing wrong with me!" he says, pulling back from Erik's thoughts before he can be sucked further in.

"You're on the goddamn balcony in the middle of a thunderstorm and you have no idea how you got here!" Erik snaps back.

There's a creak behind them and a whimper. Charles knows already, can guess even without his telepathy, but knows for sure when he feels the frightened emotions suddenly battering against his mind once he widens his focus away from Erik, that they've been followed. He and Erik both turn around, though, to spy the children clumped together near the open balcony doors. They're staring at him and they're scared and Charles suddenly can't breathe for all the people surrounding him.

"I'm not crazy," he says. His voice trembles only minutely. "Stay away from me."

The words sting Erik and he's projecting, perhaps unconsciously, the desperate need for Charles to stay, to turn around, to come back to him. Charles ignores it and elbows through the children, who jump away from him to avoid getting too close. He's freezing and soaked and he marches down the hall, down the stairs, unsure of where he's going except that it needs to be somewhere quiet and warm and alone.

Just hours ago he was in bed with Erik, certain that nothing could come between them and now Erik is shouting at him in front of all of the children, is accusing him of--

Charles doesn't want to think about it.

He slams the door to an old servant's stairwell and almost crashes into Moira as he rushes down the hall.

"Jesus!" Moira exclaims, reaching out to steady him before they both tumble to the ground. "You're soaked, Charles! What the hell--"

"Let go of me!" he says and yanks himself away. Moira holds up her hands placatingly and steps back, but that burst of adrenaline is gone and Charles is just tired.

"What's going on?" Moira asks. Her tone is even and neutral. She's trying not to upset him further.

"I don't want to talk about it," he says, covering his face with his hands and taking a deep breath.

"Is everyone okay?" she asks.

"Yes," he says without uncovering his face.

Moira is quiet. Even her mind is a calm fog of gentle curiosity and concern.

"Do you want to get out of those wet clothes?" she asks after a moment.

He doesn't even have it in him to make the obvious joke. He drops his hands and nods.

Moira doesn't hesitate in approaching him, in wrapping an arm around his shoulder and leading him down the hall. Moira's room is on the same floor as his and the children's, but closest to the main stairs. Charles pauses at the stairwell--but a quick sweep of the others puts the children and Erik still standing off the balcony. Moira urges him up the steps and through the cracked open door of her room. There are clothes everywhere, and there's a flash of embarrassment which, surprisingly, goes a long way to making Charles feel less awkward.

"Sorry," she says. She kicks the door shut behind them and leaves him there, rushing to pick up dresses and blouses and skirts. "I had some pre-date jitters."

"It's fine," Charles says. "I'm sorry. I've gotten you wet." He can see, even in the low light, that she's damp where she was pressed against him, but she waves him off and drops the pile of clothes in front of her closet.

"I was already damp from running across to the door from the driveway," she says. "I saw someone up on the balcony and panicked."

Charles doesn't take the bait, standing motionless where Moira left him as she opens and closes drawers, pawing through the contents until she's holding up baggy sweatpants and a hooded sweatshirt with "CIA" stamped on it in black block print.

"Standard issue at the gym facilities," she says to Charles, then tosses them at him. "Not designed with the female form in mind. They should fit."

Charles stares down at them dully.

"I'll turn around if you want," Moira says. "But it's nothing I haven't seen before. Me and half the population of Oxford."

The dig spurs Charles into action. He rolls his eyes and turns his back, peeling off his soggy pajamas and dropping them onto the floor with a squelch. He keeps the damp shorts, not quite prepared to strip entirely, regardless of what Moira may or may not have already seen. The sweats fit him well enough, though the top is a little tight across his shoulders and the pants are too long in the leg. He turns around, only to be hit in the face with a towel.

"Dry your hair," Moira says. "Then sit down. Take a deep breath. Do you want a drink?"

Charles sits on the edge of the bed and runs the towel over his hair.

"Yes," he says. "Yes, I would very much like a drink."

Moira disappears into the bathroom and reappears with a bottle of wine, a wine glass, and a plastic tumbler. She places the two cups on the nightstand and uncorks the wine, pouring a liberal amount into each. She hands Charles the wine glass and then sits next to him on the bed.

"Sorry I only have the one," she says, tipping her tumbler towards him. "I'm not used to having company for my nightcap."

Dry and warm and sipping wine, Charles starts to center himself again. It's possible he overreacted, responded irrationally to Erik. But Erik has still not given him a chance. He hasn't listened to Charles or trusted him or even looked for an explanation outside of everything being in Charles' head.

Of course, they haven't talked about it, either. Which is as much Charles' fault as his.

"How are things looking on that front?" Charles asks, looking up at Moira and forcing a smile, turning his mind away from his own interpersonal problems. "You had a date tonight?"

"I did," Moira admits. She stares down into her cup. "It went...well? Like the last. We talked and we had a good time and I really like him but...the whole time it felt like playacting."

"Well," Charles points out, "you are playacting. Of a sort."

"I guess," Moira says. She sighs. "Maybe I'm destined to never have another relationship. I don't want to keep doing this if it feels fake, but I can't exactly be up front with strangers until I get to know them better."

"If you like him, maybe we can check into him a bit and you can come clean," Charles suggests. And, really, it would just involve a quick trip into town. Charles wouldn't even have to approach the man, he could read him from afar and find out everything Moira needs to know.

"I would still have to explain that I'd been lying from the start," Moira says. "People tend to be turned off by that. The whole 'trust' thing."

Right. Trust.

Charles closes his eyes and takes a long drink. He doesn't have to look at Moira to feel her gaze on him.

"Are you boys having some trust issues?" she asks.

"I don't know," Charles lies. He opens his eyes and leans forward, forearms resting on his thighs. "I--there have been things happening and Erik--he's made his own decisions."

"About what's actually going on?" Moira asks lightly.

"I've been...having dreams," he says.

"We noticed," Moira says.

Charles spares her a glare and then focuses on the carpet again. He should he telling all of this to Erik, not Moira, but Moira's sitting there and calmly asking him questions and hasn't accused him of anything.

He rubs his arm absently where he's sure to bruise tomorrow. Erik wants to help. Erik always wants to help. But Erik sometimes lacks nuance and compassion. Everything is black and white to him. Black and white isn't what Charles needs right now.

He looks up at Moira again.

"Not just...that," he says. "They've been...strange. Sometimes my dreams are my own and sometimes I drift through those around me, but I couldn't pin this to any of you. I dreamt of a jungle, of running through a jungle and of obtaining a great power. They've been plaguing me for almost a week. And those are the nights that I...get up and sleepwalk."

Moira nods and sips her wine.

"I've been through a great many things, Moira," he continues. "But I've never had problems with sleepwalking. I haven't projected nightmares in ages. And I--I honestly did see something last night in the corridor. I swear to you, I saw the form of Armando, translucent and ethereal but there."

"And Erik doesn't believe you?" Moira asks.

"He thinks I'm--"

Charles drains his glass and places it on the end table. This is Moira, who has been nothing but fair and who is exuding compassion and concern.

"When I was a boy and my powers were just developing, I wasn't quite cognizant of the fact that other people couldn't read minds," he tells her. "I can't remember a time when I couldn't hear other people's thoughts--I think my telepathy developed parallel to my language skills. I just assumed, naturally, that everyone had the same power. When I was very small, my parents thought I was playing games. As I grew to school age, it became time for me to leave those games behind. I wouldn't, quite obviously, as to me it wasn't a game. I kept insisting I could hear people's thoughts--I called them 'inside voices'--and they took me to doctor after doctor. My mother thought the most uncomplimentary things about how I was ruining her reputation. My father was both irritated that it distracted from his work and intrigued by the idea of making a study of me. The short of it was that they--well, my mother very nearly decided it would be best to put me in an institution."

Moira touches his arm and then puts an arm around his shoulder, pulling him tight against her in a half hug.

"Jesus," she says. "I can't imagine."

"It's awful," he says, "being told you're crazy and knowing that you're not, trying to cling to that even as you're bombarded from all sides with supposed evidence that it's all in your head. I was five years old. Of course I started to question my own sanity, if I was really hearing what I thought I was hearing."

"Oh, Charles," Moira says. "That's--you're not crazy. No one here is saying that. Not me and certainly not the man who thinks the sun rises and sets on you."

"I think you're exaggerating his opinion of me just slightly," Charles says. He's aiming for dry and witty, but his voice cracks in the middle. Fuck. Dammit. Bloody hell. He's not a little boy and he's not losing his mind and there's no reason to get so upset.

"I'm really not," Moira assures him. "And--Charles, really. Truly. Look at me."

He raises his eyes, unreasonably afraid of what he'll see when he looks at her. He doesn't want to be crazy. He doesn't want to be locked away. He can't stand the idea of losing his grip on reality, of being told that everything he knows is a lie, a fabrication created by his own mind. Because if this one thing is a lie, then what's to say that the rest of it is true? How can he trust himself? How can he believe anything if his own brain is betraying him?

He looks at Moira.

She doesn't look like she's going to have him committed. She's not thinking about it either. She's thinking he was a kid and I'm going to kill Lehnsherr and this all has to be related somehow and he can't be crazy. She's staring at him, too, hard and and with that no-nonsense expression she gets around the children.

"You're entirely sane, Charles," she says. "No one thinks otherwise. Not me, not Erik. Something else is going on here and we're going to figure out what it is. Okay?"

He nods weakly.

"I--thank you," he says. "I can't tell you how--it's just very good to hear that out loud. And after I've been--well. I've been rather rude to you lately."

He feels terrible. He's felt terrible the whole time, both the terrible, gut-churning sickness of watching Moira and Erik laugh and not being in on the joke and the terrible shame of knowing he has no place to protest, that he encouraged this after all, a meeting of minds and a friendship between two people who needed it.

He wants them to be friends. Or maybe he wants to want them to be friends. It's none of his business and now Moira is comforting him and Erik is angry with him and his whole life feels like it's in shambles.

"Hey, it's okay," Moira says. "I didn't take it personally. I mean, not too much at least."

Charles squeezes his eyes shut.

"I'm sorry," he says again. "I don't know why I--it's so silly. Obviously you're not trying to--and Erik's not either and I don't think that. I don't know what I think."

There's a certain amount of exasperation coming off Moira, making it clear that she knows what he's thinking even if he's too embarrassed to put it into words. Still, she doesn't chastise him and he's so damn tired that he can't be annoyed. He's exhausted. He doesn't know where it came from.

He reaches out, just the smallest, silent, secret brush by Erik. He's nearly overwhelmed by the concern and frustration, by the helplessness. His head throbs.

"Why don't you sleep here tonight?" Moira asks. "I think the two of you need some distance. In the morning, at a civilized hour, you can have a real conversation, okay? It's the middle of the night. Tensions are high."

"I don't want to put you out," he says.

"Charles, seriously, the bed is big enough for the both of us," Moira says. "I promise I won't make a grab for what little virtue you have left if you promise to keep your hands to yourself and remember you're not in bed with Erik." She squeezes his shoulder. He doesn't have to open his eyes to see her sly grin, but he does it anyway. "Come on. You're exhausted. You're so exhausted you're bleeding exhaustion out into me. Get into bed. I'm going to take a shower and then I'll join you."

Charles nods, weakly, the rest of the night, the rest of the week finally catching up to him. He lets Moira pull the blankets back and all but push him underneath them.

"Thank you," he says. He hopes she understands that he means for the bed and the sense and the companionship and the support. He pushes it out towards her, a great lump of affection, just in case. Then he closes his eyes again, lays his head on her pillow, and allows himself to drift back to sleep.

***

Charles is asleep before Moira even gathers her pajamas together, a combination of emotional and physical exhaustion, the late hour, and the glass of wine. He's still sleeping, fifteen minutes later, when Moira returns from her shower, warm and clean and still turning the conversation over in her mind.

She's not entirely surprised that Charles' parents reacted to his telepathy in that way. She thinks if, two years ago, her kid had insisted he could read minds, she'd think he was sick, too. She knows better now, of course, and she can only imagine how horrible it must have been for Charles, that suffocating fear that he was really crazy. She wonders how many children have been locked away because of their powers and shudders.

Not anymore. That's why she's here, isn't it?

Still, all considerations of Charles' sanity aside, there's obviously something going on, something inspiring these dreams and infecting the house with this fear. She'd been just as quick to dismiss the "ghost" as Erik and Charles, but perhaps the more prudent course of action is to investigate a cause rather than dismissing it out of hand. Where would they be if she had dismissed what she saw in Vegas?

She wraps her dressing gown around herself and quietly slips out into the hall. The door to Ororo's room is open and Moira hears Jean, Angel and Raven inside, speaking soothingly. Alex's door is also open, though the room appears empty at first glance. Scott's door is closed, though, and she hears voices from the other side. Charles and Erik's door is also closed, but Moira doesn't even bother to knock, pulling it open and and peering in to make sure Erik isn't in the midst of anything embarrassing, like crying or breaking Xavier family heirlooms.

He's not. He's merely sitting on the bed, his elbows resting on his thighs and his head hanging down, a mirror of Charles' position just a few minutes earlier. He looks up at Moira when she enters the room and closes the door.

"I suppose you want to shout as well," he says.

"I don't want to shout," Moira says. "Shouting gives me a headache and I get enough of those without raising my voice."

"I don't know what to do," Erik says. "Everything I do is wrong."

"No," Moira says, crossing to sit next to him, "Yelling and ignoring it were wrong. I assume there was yelling? Knowing you, as I do."

Erik looks to the side and shifts uncomfortably.

"There may have been yelling," he admits. "I didn't--he could have hurt himself. He could have killed himself and that's--upsetting. To me."

No, really? she wants to say, but refrains.

"It's upsetting to him, too," Moira says. "Look, it's not my place to stick my nose into your relationship, despite the fact that I seem to be doing it with alarming frequency lately. It's not my place to tell tales either, but Charles has a lot of bad memories about people not believing him and thinking he's nuts. Without, you know, details, imagine what would happen if all of a sudden you could hear other people's thoughts and no one knew anything about mutants and you told someone about your new abilities."

Erik opens his mouth to respond and then closes it. He looks thoughtful. And miserable.

"I don't think he's crazy," Erik says. "I would never--I wouldn't lock him away. There are other explanations."

"Yeah, well, next time maybe you should calmly say, 'Let's explore other explanations' as opposed to treating him the same way you did the kids," Moira says.

She doesn't get the best reaction from that. She blames her lack of tact on exhaustion and before Erik can turn his bristling glare into a scathing remark, she says, "Look, I don't believe in this crap anymore than you do. But I think both of us can agree that Charles is above inventing something like this or buying into the hysteria the kids are breeding. Which means there's something else going on."

She turns over what she's about to say in her brain. Is it legitimate? Is it a fear of commitment? Does it hold water? Is Erik going to laugh at her?

"I was thinking about Nate," she says. "Something's been...weird about our interactions. And the nightmares and the ghost and all of it started right around the time we first bumped into him at the post office. It could just be a coincidence, but I'm not sure I entirely believe in coincidences."

Erik scrubs at his face.

"Coincidences," he says, looking over at her, miserable and angry. "I forgot. In everything else happening, I forgot to mention I saw the windows open again. Earlier this morning on my run. I went through all the rooms, but I couldn't find anyone and I did a few laps around the property, but it's a huge piece of land and someone could be hiding anywhere. Charles did a sweep the other day and couldn't find anything, but with something like Shaw's helmet--"

"Or another psychic," Moira says. She can't help but think of Nate again. Could he be a mutant? Is the reason their conversations feel so strange because he's in her head? "Someone with powers that could hide them from Charles, maybe? Who had unlimited access to his power for a week to study it?" They hadn't gone after Frost in the aftermath of Charles' kidnapping, though Moira had lobbied for it.

"Not Frost," Erik says, looking as though it pains him. "She...corresponds with Charles." Moira raises her eyebrows. She didn't know that. And she's not overly pleased by it. "Don't make that face, I wasn't any happier to find out. I was even less happy that he was actively keeping it a secret from me because he knew I'd disapprove."

"Okay," Moira concedes, "that puts Frost out of the equation--probably--but not some other type of psychic. Or anyone who figured out how to duplicate Shaw's helmet."

"It's probably someone working alone," Erik says, his posture more confident. Moira understands--she feels better when she has an angle to work too. Anxiety has a way of melting away when Moira is actually contributing something productive to solving the problem. "If not alone entirely, than at least alone here. There are too many of us and Charles is too good for a large amount of people to hide from him."

"Well, let's back up," Moira says. "It might be easier to figure out who would do this if we figure out what they stand to gain from supposedly haunting the house." She wishes she had a notebook. She works best when she can make lists.

"It unsettles us," Erik says. "Maybe makes us sloppy in our nervousness."

"It divides us," Moira adds. "We did turn on the children and then on Charles when he saw it."

"And the fact that it's Armando means it's someone who knows us well enough to know the connection," Erik says.

"Charles told you that, too?" Moira asks.

"And Alex confirmed," Erik says. "Which means it's either someone from your government who somehow recovered the files we burned--" He shoots Moira a hard look, but doesn't comment further or blame it on her, which she appreciates.

"--or the telepath theory," Moira concludes. "Or--I hate to go back to Frost, but she works with the teleporter and the wind guy now. They were both recruiting the kids with Shaw. They saw Darwin die."

Erik shakes his head. "It's not Frost," he says. "I...I trust Charles. And Charles trusts Frost."

Moira wants to remind him that trusting Charles' judgement doesn't mean he should be off his guard, but trust is a tricky thing with those two. They don't have time for a fight. She lets it go, but keeps it in the back of her mind.

"Another telepath would explain Charles' dreams, too," Moira says. "Maybe even the sleepwalking."

It's a sound theory, but it relies on the idea that Charles could somehow be blind to someone poking through his head. Of course, maybe that's easier in sleep. Maybe his defenses are down at night. Unfortunately, Charles is the only one who can answer that question and he's sound asleep and not best pleased with them right now.

"Look," Moira says, running her hands through her damp hair, "it's late. And I think this is a conversation that Charles needs to be a part of. He can best tells us what sort of telepathic umph it would take to do this to us. There's nothing more we can do tonight."

Erik mutters something quietly to himself in German.

"You're right," he admits. He hesitates, and then says, "Is he okay?"

"He's upset and tired," Moira says. "He's asleep in my bed. When he wakes up in the morning, I think all three of us should sit down without the kids and talk about this. I'm tired of running interference for you two."

"Fine," Erik says. "Tomorrow." He looks towards the door, and though Moira's not the telepath, she can almost feel the question rolling around in Erik's brain, the request to switch rooms for the night, to spend the last hours until dawn fretting over Charles' slumbering body.

He doesn't voice it, though. Moira doesn't offer.

"See you in the morning, Lehnsherr," she says, and heads back towards her room.

Most of the activity on the hall has quieted. Ororo's door is closed. All of the doors are closed, in fact, and dark, save for Scott's which inches open as Moira enters the hall. Alex slips out, pulling the door shut silently behind him. For all that Alex seems to be something of a fuck-up, he's good with that kid, she has to give him that.

She'll be able to scrounge up a few hours of sleep yet, but she turns to go back to her room and freezes.

Behind her, she hears Alex's sharp intake of breath, the word fuck murmured so quietly that Moira almost misses it.

Armando is floating in the hallway. Vague, ghost-like, hovering three or four inches off the ground, and staring at Alex.

It's definitely Armando. And he's definitely right there. And Alex definitely sees him. There's a goddamn ghost in the hallway.

Except no. Ghosts don't exist. Ghosts aren't real.

"Darwin?" she manages to say in a steady voice. The figure turns and looks at her, its eyes wide, and then, quick as anything, it's gone and she and Alex are alone in the hall again.

They're both quiet for long seconds.

"You saw that?" Alex finally asks. It sounds like the words have been forcibly torn from his throat.

"If you mean a creepy floating vision of Darwin in the middle of the hallway, then yes, I did," Moira says.

Alex stares at her. He looks scared. She feels, strangely, like she should be comforting him. Stroking his hair and telling him he'll be okay. It looks like he needs it.

"We're going to figure this out, Alex," she says, imbuing it with as much conviction as she can. "We're going to figure out why this is happening, okay?"

He runs for his room without saying another word. He slams the door, and moments later, Erik's opens again.

"What the hell was that?" he asks.

"Alex, slamming his door," Moira says. Then, because what the hell, it's not like they're already trying to figure this out, "You can count me among the lunatics. I just saw it, too."

Erik frowns. "The ghost?" he asks.

"Yeah," Moira says. Her hands belatedly start to shake. "Darwin. Just...floating in the hallway. It looked like I could walk right through him. But I saw it, clear as day, and Alex saw it too."

"Alex thinks Darwin is haunting him," Erik says. He buries both his hands in his hair. He looks at a loose end.

"Well, someone's trying to haunt us, but I don't think it's a dead boy," Moira says. "We'll talk about it more in the morning. I need to..." Go finish that bottle of wine. Jesus Christ. She doesn't believe in ghosts, but what the hell? What the hell? "...go to bed."

"Right," Erik says. "Right. Just, uh--sleep well. And...make sure...if you need anything or Charles...needs anything...."

"You're right down the hall," Moira says, still remarkably composed. "Got it."

She walks back to her room with poise and dignity, then closes the door and clutches it to keep from falling to the floor as her knees threaten to give out.

A ghost. That was a ghost. A goddamn ghost. Oh fuck.

There's a part of her brain that knows there's a real explanation, that it's probably anything else. For the life of her, she can't focus on that part. Instead, she pours herself another glass of wine which she hastily drinks, and then climbs in bed with Charles, pathetically grateful to have someone else an arm's length away as she drifts towards sleep.

***

Erik wakes alone.

It's strange how quickly something can become expected. Ingrained. He's been sleeping next to Charles for two months and he already can't imagine sleeping without him, can barely recall how he could wake on his own each morning without feeling this ache of loneliness in the pit of his belly.

He rolls onto his back and stares at the ceiling.

Something is going on in the house. He knows that for certain now. He should have known from the start. He should have suspected. He certainly shouldn't have accused Charles of seeing things. He definitely shouldn't have shouted, as terrified as he was to see Charles so close to danger. He woke alone, but followed the creaking of the stairs out into the hall and up, just in time to see Charles walking sedately out onto the balcony, ignoring the raging winds and rain and, more troubling, ignoring the way Erik was shouting his name. His heart beat high and fast in his throat. He didn't think, he just yelled.

Not his finest hour.

The rain is still battering against the house and the wind is roaring. Erik can feel the oncoming storm in his bones. He's run in worse weather, but between the rain and the pall over the house, he doesn't know that he's up for it. Instead, he takes a long hot shower, a luxury he doesn't normally allow himself, and dresses. It's later than he normally sleeps, and the doors to most of the children's rooms are open, meaning they're probably already downstairs. Moira's door is closed, though, and Erik can't help but pause outside. He pushes it open, silently, and peers through the small gap he allows.

Charles is still asleep. So is Moira. He considers, briefly, waking either or both. In the end, he pulls the door shut and continues downstairs.

The adults are the last ones up. There are already stacks of pancakes on the table and a plate that looks like it once held bacon. Sean is at the stove, frying more up. When the place becomes a proper school, they're going to need to hire at least one chef. Erik, strangely, is going to miss cooking for everyone himself or seeing the children take up the responsibility for it. It's pleasant and so reminiscent of a family that he has to stop and shake his head.

"Good morning," Raven says when she sees him lingering in the doorway. She'd been making faces for Ororo and Jean, mimicking starlets and movie heroes, and now she's back to her usual blue, but deeply worried.

"Good morning," Erik says. He doesn't want to talk about it unless he has to. There's always the possibility that Raven won't put voice to her concerns.

"How's--is Charles okay?"

He didn't really expect her to be quiet. It was a distant hope.

"I don't know," he says honestly. "I upset him." He doesn't want to delve into the details in front of everyone else. It's a private matter. It's between Charles and himself, though Moira's become embroiled too, somehow, and Raven is Charles' sister, who has her nose in Charles' business by default and is the only person who understands Charles the way Erik does.

"Yeah," Angel says, not looking up from pouring syrup on a pancake, "next time maybe don't shout at him in the rain in front of all of us."

"I didn't invite you up onto that balcony," Erik snaps, pulling out a chair with a jerk of his power and sitting down. "Nor did I invite you into this conversation."

"Is Charles okay?" Jean asks, leaning over towards Erik, heedless of his dark mood. "Is he mad at us? Why did he run away? Why were you yelling at each other? Are you mad at each other?"

"He's not mad at you, Jean," Erik says. "He'll be...he's not feeling well. I shouldn't have yelled at him."

"He was dreaming, babe," Angel says. "Sometimes, when someone is upset, they walk around in their sleep. Charles was doing that and when Erik woke him up he was confused. When Erik started shouting at him, he shouted back because he didn't know what else to do. He's not mad at anyone."

Jean looks, if anything, slightly more disturbed about the idea of walking around in her sleep than she is about all the shouting.

"But he's okay?" she asks again, dubiously.

"He's fine," Erik lies.

Sean reaches over her head to put a fresh plate of bacon on top of the empty one.

"Well, I've been thinking about that," he says, and Erik can already tell this isn't going to go well. "I mean, with the sleepwalking and everything else happening...maybe the professor's possessed."

The table goes quiet. Erik counts to five to keep from doing something he'll regret.

"No, seriously," Sean says. "It's in all those stories my Mamo used to tell us. Spirits and things get in a person, make them act strangely, do things they don't expect, and they don't even remember it afterwards."

Erik is going to kill Sean.

"Do not," he says, without strangling him, through some hitherto unknown feat of self-control, "repeat that. Ever. Not in front of the children and certainly not in front of Charles. If I find out--"

"Too late," Charles says softly from the doorway.

Erik turns just enough to see Charles leaning against the doorjamb in ill-fitting CIA sweats. He looks tired and understandably wary. Erik knows the first thing he should do is apologize, but he's hesitant to make an apology in front of the rest of the house. It's a private matter, and the things he wants to say are best said without an audience. He settles for nodding stiffly in greeting.

Raven and Angel exchange a look that Erik can't read. Jean and Scott watch Charles warily. Ororo jumps down from her chair and hides behind Erik.

"Is there really a ghost in Charles?" she asks in a loud whisper. "Is it a bad ghost? Is it hurting him? Is it going to hurt us?"

"There's nothing wrong with Charles!" Erik snaps, looking at Sean as he does it, though Ororo is the one who jumps. "He's fine." He gets to his feet, unsure of what he can do to back up that claim. He reaches out, tentatively, to brush Charles' cheek. When Charles allows the touch, he steps closer and presses a chaste kiss to the corner of Charles' mouth.

"You're fine," he tells Charles, staring down at him. Charles nods once in affirmation, and Erik turns around, leaving his hand pressed at the small of Charles' back. "He's fine."

Ororo approaches them tentatively, tugging on Charles' sweatpants until he crouches down.

"There's no ghost in you?" she asks him seriously.

"Certainly not, my love," he says. Ororo studies him for a moment and then wraps her arms around his neck. Charles hugs her back, holding her close, and soon Jean is on her feet too, leaning over to hug them both. "I'm so sorry, girls. I hope I didn't scare you."

"I wasn't scared," Jean insists.

"I wasn't scared either," Ororo agrees, her voice muffled where she's still pressed against Charles. Erik glances among the others, notes that Raven is watching Charles and the girls, Hank is staring, unmoving, at his breakfast plate, and everyone else is looking at Sean.

Erik's going to shake some sense into that boy, his grandmother's stories be damned.

"I think we all have lessons to prepare for," Erik announces. It's a bit early, yet, but he wants the room, and Raven, at least, seems to understand the directive. She gets to her feet and drags Angel with her.

"We'll get going," she says. "We'll see you later."

"But I'm not done!" Sean insists.

"Shut up, Cassidy," Angel says.

"I'm going back to the lab," Hank says. "Raven, uh, if you want to help me with the new fence again later--that would be okay?"

Raven pauses halfway out of the room and looks back at Hank.

"Have you got it upright yet?" she asks, pushing her hair behind her ear.

"Uh, I'm--well, I'm almost there?" he says. "But I could use some more tests on the electrical components."

"Flirt later," Erik mutters before it can go any further, and Raven sighs.

"I'll see you this afternoon, Hank," she says, and leaves the room on Erik's glare, Angel behind her. Hank takes his plate and disappears in the direction of his lab. Alex follows after the girls, who are dragging Sean, and Scott follows after him. Ororo returns to the table, swipes a piece of bacon, and then runs after the rest with Jean on her heels.

Charles is still crouching on the floor. He stands slowly. He doesn't approach Erik.

"I owe you an apology," Erik says before Charles can make an excuse to be elsewhere. "I shouldn't have shouted at you. I shouldn't have shouted last night or the night before, I should have listened to you. I never thought--Charles, I don't think you're crazy. I don't think there's anything wrong with you. You must know that."

Charles smiles sadly.

"I'm not so sure of that," he says. He turns his head, his gaze following the children down the hall. Erik frowns.

"You can't possibly--you're not possessed." Erik spits the word out. "Charles!"

"Something is wrong!" Charles says. "Something is obviously--these are all symptoms of something greater, they have to be. Something is affecting me, and I would rather be possessed than the alternative!"

Erik catches himself before he can follow-through on his first instinct, which is shouting uselessly. That hasn't worked so far, and he does eventually learn from his mistakes.

"Why--why don't we sit down?" he asks. He gestures towards the table and then takes a seat. Charles moves slowly, but he follows, eyes on Erik. "I spoke to Moira last night."

"Did you?" Charles asks. "And what did she have to say?"

"Many things," Erik says. "But I'd rather hear them from you."

The response isn't immediate. Charles looks at the table first, his face turned so Erik can drink in his profile, the curve of his nose, the elegant swoop of his eyelashes as he blinks.

"My parents wanted to commit me to an asylum in the early days of my telepathy," Charles tells him. There's no shade of emotion there. Erik finds it disquieting. "I didn't understand, yet, that people don't trust the fantastic, not at face value, not without proof. I learned to lie, to hide myself, and mostly to trust myself. I couldn't count on anyone else to tell me what was real and what wasn't real. I needed to learn my own mind and then have faith in it."

Erik can have faith. A little, at least, on a trial basis. He can listen.

"Okay," he says. He reaches out to where Charles' hand is resting on the table and covers it with his own. "What is your mind telling you?"

"That...something strange is happening," Charles says. He turns back to Erik. Fuck, but he's looked terrible for days now. "I'm having strange dreams. I'm sleepwalking. I'm...afraid of something, but I don't know what. I saw Armando that night in the hallway, or at least something that took on his image. None of these things are normal, but I can't help but feel like they're all connected."

"That's what we thought, too," Moira says from behind them. Her heels clack on the kitchen floor as she crosses the kitchen and joins them at the table. "Good morning, gentlemen."

"Good morning," Charles says. "Thank you again for--well, for everything."

"You're welcome," Moira says. She tugs a strand of his hair affectionately and then takes a seat. "Anyway, as I was saying, Erik and I had a chat last night. We think all the weird things happening here are connected. We came up with a couple of theories that mostly boil down to an intimidation effort by another telepath. Erik says you and Frost have been in contact. Is there any way--"

"No," Charles says quickly. "Emma has her own agenda to concern herself with right now."

Erik squeezes Charles' hand and purses his lips. "We're going to have another conversation about that at some point. I'm not the only one who thinks it's a bad idea." He glances over at Moira, who nods, but Charles just rolls his eyes.

"It's not Emma Frost," he says. "And I...well, I can't be positive, of course, but I could feel when Frost was trying to get into my head last time we met. Something about our similar powers and the restructuring of our minds to compensate for them, I'd wager, but she couldn't take me by surprise."

Erik's mind takes that knowledge and recalculates, rearranges. "What about some other form of coercion? Someone who can influence you without altering your mind directly? You're the one who's always saying that the breadth of mutation is beyond our knowledge."

"I don't know," Charles admits. "I don't have any better explanation than I had last night. I'm not sure what's going on, only that something must be."

"And something that knows Darwin or knows how to get Darwin from us," Moira says. She pauses, then adds, "I saw him too, last night."

There's a flash of triumph from Charles, a smugness that he probably doesn't mean to project.

"I apologized," Erik insists.

"You shouted at me in front of the children," Charles says. "It's going to take some time."

"I didn't know they were there," Erik says, but it's a weak argument and he knows it. It reminds him, though, of the other things they've been blaming on adolescent ennui the past week. "The windows on the far wing of the house were open again yesterday. I meant to mention it, but I was distracted by Alex. I looked around and it didn't seem like anything was out of place but it's hard to tell."

They're all quiet for a moment, turning it over in their minds. Moira taps her fingernails on the table absently. Charles bites his lip.

"Well," Moira finally says. "We need to start somewhere. If someone is in the house or on the property to do this to us, we'll need to look for them. Might as well start somewhere we know something strange has happened."

"We can go after lessons," Erik agrees. "We'll search from top to bottom while the kids are otherwise engaged. We can move out from there, to the other unused parts of the house, to the grounds..."

"With the weather, maybe it's best to save the grounds for tomorrow," Charles suggests.

"No," Erik says. "With the weather like this, anyone out there will be forced to either seek shelter or stay where they are. They won't expect us. It will be easier to hunt them down." Charles looks unimpressed. "We'll get you galoshes."

"Very funny," Charles says.

"So, that's the plan," Moira says, regaining their attention before Erik can continue the teasing, can try to coax a smile out of Charles. "After lessons, we'll head over there and check it out."

"That sounds like a good first step," Charles says. He pushes his chair back and gets to his feet. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go change."

Erik watches him go in silence. He can feel Moira's eyes on him.

"What do we do if we can't find anything?" she asks.

"We keep looking until we do," Erik says, and gets up to make fresh coffee.

The weather gets worse as the day progresses. The atmosphere was tense enough before the rumble of thunder started putting the little ones on edge, and by lunch, everyone is skittish. The house seems darker and sinister in the half-light of the storm. Normally, they combat the eeriness with warm fires and marathon board game sessions or Moira and Charles reading aloud, but an uneasy tension has settled among them. It's a mix, Erik guesses, of the ghost and the arguments, of Charles' odd behavior and the revelation of Erik and Charles' relationship.

He's relieved when he's done tutoring for the day, when he has an excuse to leave the children behind and escape to the other side of the house, hopefully far away from the tension.

Moira's service weapon is strapped to her hip when he meets her in the foyer. There's another gun at the small of her back. Charles is holding a flashlight and a large ring of keys. Thunder cracks ominously.

"I know you can get into most of the rooms on your own, but I thought it might be prudent," Charles says of the keys.

"A gun would be more prudent," Erik says. "We don't know what we're walking into."

"It's exploratory," Charles insists. "You know I don't like guns."

"You like breathing," Erik says. "I like you breathing."

Charles isn't convinced, though, Erik can tell from the slant of his mouth. Before it can devolve into an argument, Moira sighs.

"I have a back-up," she says, reaching behind her back and pulling out the smaller pistol. "Do you know how to fire a gun?"

"Yes," Charles says, eyeing it dubiously. "Erik taught me."

"Christ, I hope that's not a metaphor," Moira says, and hands it to him. "Be careful. That's loaded." Once he takes the weapon, she reaches back again and detaches a small holster from her skirt, passing it over as well. "Keep it in there until you need it."

"Yes, thank you," Charles says, with just a hint of his defensive arrogance. He holsters the weapon, though, and attaches it to his pocket. "Can we please get moving? I'd like to wrap this all up before we're stuck outside in gale-force winds."

"Should we tell Raven or Hank where we're going?" Moira asks. "Just in case something happens, someone should probably know what's up."

"I can--" Charles says, and then he closes his eyes for just a moment. "Done."

"If we could--"

There's a rattle of thunder loud enough to shake the house, and then the lights flicker out.

The silence hangs heavy. Charles clicks on his flashlight.

"Oh, bugger," he says, though it's nearly drowned out by the sudden shrieks from the vicinity of the den. There's thumping and wordless shouts and then the now-familiar sound of several pair of feet stomping across the floors at great speed as Angel shouts, "No, wait!" and Alex bellows, "Guys! Stop!"

"We could always get a head start," Erik suggests, but Charles is already crossing the room towards the hall.

"It's all right," he says. "The lights just went out because of the storm. Everything will be fine."

"No it won't!" Ororo says, dashing into the room straight for Erik, clinging to his leg.

"I'm scared!" Scott says.

"I'm not sitting around in the dark, not with all the stuff that's been going on here!" Sean says.

Erik grinds the heel of his hand into his forehead. He uses the other to pat Ororo on the head, but rather than encouraging her that everything's fine, she just tightens her grip on him.

"What if--" Raven starts to say, then stops. She looks at Charles and they stare at each other grimly, a conversation shooting back and forth between them with an intensity that's obvious from their posture.

Raven is concerned that if there's someone in the house and we leave the children alone in the dark, they'll be vulnerable to attack, Charles says.

No more vulnerable than they were in the light, Erik replies.

Oh, thanks, Erik. That's Raven. And completely unexpected. He jerks to stare at Charles.

How did you do that? he asks.

Oh. I can act as something of a conduit between minds, Charles says. Projecting to several people at once and looping their responses in to each other. To be honest, there wasn't much use for it until now, what with Raven being the only one who knew I was capable of it.

So don't think anything gross, Raven says.

Which of course leads to a rapidfire trail of thoughts that starts with What would Raven think is gross? and ends with a memory of unbuttoning Charles' slacks while pressing him up against their bedroom wall, kissing his throat.

"That!" Raven says. "That is what I mean!"

"Thank you, Erik," Charles says.

"What's going on?" Alex asks.

"Charles, Moira, and I are going to check something on the other side of the house," Erik says. "Stay here. Stay together. We'll be back in an hour or so."

"You're just leaving us here?" Sean asks, eyes wide. There's another flash of lightning. The thunder that follows it, however, actually shakes the house.

Except no, that's not the thunder.

"That definitely came from the far wing," Moira says quietly.

"Stay here," Erik says. He reaches down to pull Ororo off of him, but she's wrapped around him like a limpet. "Ororo--"

"Let us help!" Raven says. "We're trained for this, Erik! Or have you forgotten the weekly torture sessions you insist on?"

"We can help!" Sean agrees. "Whatever's over there sounds big."

There's another crash. They're wasting time.

"Fine!" Erik snaps. "Ororo, Scott, Jean--stay here!"

"No!" Jean shouts. "You can't leave us alone! You can't! What if something comes while you're gone?"

"We don't have time for this!" Erik says.

"Oh, for god's sake," Moira says. "Come on! All of you. Quickly and quietly. We'll see what's going on, and if it's dangerous, we'll stash the kids somewhere. We're losing time."

Charles hesitates, but Erik's already on the move, striding silently across the room and down the hall. He hears the now-familiar sound of Angel taking flight. Moira ushers Raven and Alex behind him, then follows with Hank and Sean just after her. Charles hangs back with the children.

We'll clear the ballroom and then leave them there, Charles says.

Fine, Erik responds. Just keep them quiet.

The crashing stops as they pad near-silently through the halls. Charles keeps the children from making noise and aside from the soft buzz of Angel's wings, the teens are controlled and serious. Maybe they've been paying more attention during their training than Erik thought they were. He's relieved; anything powerful enough to shake the house to its foundations is going to present a rather large problem. He's confident they can handle it on their own, but having the teens around to protect the younger children will be a boon.

He slows as they get closer to the hallway along the back corridor, the one that looks out over the rose bushes. The storm is louder here, and Erik need only turn the corner to spy the windows open once again. Open, and with a wet, muddy trail leading away from them.

He holds out his hand, halting everyone's progress. He points, silently, to the muddy footprints.

I can't feel anyone, Charles says. I don't detect anyone foreign in the house.

Erik reaches out with his own power and freezes.

There's something here, he replies. In that room across from the windows, there's an awful lot of metal. Armor, I think. It's body-warm and roughly that shape. There's a strange taste to it--it's an alloy of some kind, but familiar...

Can you turn it against whoever's on the other side? Moira asks.

Probably, Erik says. They're just on the other side of this wall. If I can take them out, Charles can take the children back to the den and out of harm while we figure this out.

Let's do it, then, Moira says. Erik nods and starts slinking across the wall, winding his awareness around the strange metal encasing the person on the other side. He's halfway to the door when he senses the movement. There's no way to move in time, no time to get out of the way as the wall starts to crumble around him. Someone screams and Erik's head floods with terror that's not his own.

Through the dust and debris, he manages to get a look at the looming figure of a man who reaches down and lifts him off the ground with one huge fist, as if he weighed nothing.

"You trying to sneak up on me?" the man bellows.

"Cain?" Charles sputters, and Erik reaches for the metal coating his chest and head, but he's not fast enough. The man flings Erik like a discarded rag he hits the ground head first, the darkness swallowing him before he can do more than tug uselessly at the armor.

***

Charles isn't screaming. Everyone else is screaming, but Charles is too shocked, too terrified, too heartbroken to scream.

He's moving, though. He got the children behind him, somehow, as the man--as Cain oh god, it's Cain--turns away from Erik's crumpled body. He wants to scream. He wants to fall to his knees and make sure that Erik is okay, that the distant wisp of Erik's mind, veiled now in the heavy darkness of unconsciousness, will be okay, will bounce back, that the body that Charles so treasures will be whole, that Charles' past hasn't claimed another victim.

"Charlie!" Cain says. His head and face are covered by a ridiculous red helmet made of the same metal armor that coats his chest. The helmet must be similar in construction to Shaw's, because there's nothing--not the barest glimmer of Cain's vile mind.

"Get out of here!" Charles shouts. "Everyone--go! Go!"

They don't go, though--the teenagers spread out into the defensive pattern they've practiced so often against Erik. Moira grabs Jean and Ororo's arms, and Scott--

Scott takes off his glasses, screams, and blasts Cain backwards.

There's a second or two of eerie stillness in the aftermath, of silence save for everyone's hard breathing. Cain's been blasted back through the hole he left in the wall, nearly through the far wall and out onto the lawn. Scott is standing, frozen, in front of the first hole, but before Charles can move, Cain is back on his feet, roaring in rage.

Angel moves more quickly than any of them; she swoops down from the rafters and grabs Scott under the arms, hauling him upwards and out of the way of Cain's angry gallop. Moira pulls the girls one way and Charles herds the others back to the opposite side and out of Cain's way before he turns and runs towards Charles.

"Why aren't you happy to see me, Charlie?" he asks.

"Cain, be reasonable!" Charles shouts. "There's--whatever you're here for, we can talk about it, we can work it out--"

Hank slams into Cain's side and shoves him back through the wall. They both go sprawling.

"He's strong!" Hank yells. He staggers to his feet. "Who--what's--"

Before Charles can explain, Cain kicks out, knocking Hank off his feet. He goes flying across the room and shatters the glass of the display cabinet he crashes into. Jean screams again--Ororo hasn't stopped--and suddenly the whole house is shaking. The ceiling above Cain rumbles and crashes down around him with a jerk of Jean's hands, burying him in plaster and wood.

It's my stepbrother, Charles informs everyone as quickly as he can. Whatever he's wearing is blocking me from getting to his mind--we need to get it off of him. I don't know what he's after, but the man wasn't pleasant before this and whatever's done it to him--

Done what? Moira asks.

Made him so huge! Raven says. She looks sick and frightened and Charles has to blink to remember she's not a scared little girl who needs protecting, though it's almost comforting to know he's not the only one slipping immediately back into the oppressive grip of dread at the sight of Cain.

Charles lifts Ororo up and shoves her at Moira. He wasn't like this, Charles explains. He wasn't a monster, I don't know what's happened, what's made him like this, he wasn't a mutant before!

More ceiling rains down on Cain, and then Jean sways on her feet, looking pale and dizzy from all that use of power. Charles grabs her arm and swings her around to Moira as Cain staggers up again.

"Get them out of here!" Charles shouts at her. "Angel, take Scott and run!"

He has to trust them to move, to follow his orders as he dives forward. Cain is distracted and Charles needs to use this to his advantage. There's no way Moira can take the children and Erik out of harm's way, as much as Charles wishes he could shield Erik from further harm. The best he can do is use the distraction to move Erik to the sidelines and minimize further damage. He rolls Erik into the corner, wincing at the sight of blood oozing down from the gash in his forehead. Oh god, he has to be okay, he has to--

Charles cries out in pain, yanked back by his shoulder and lifted from the ground, his feet dangling uselessly.

"Charles!" Raven cries.

"Aren't you surprised, little brother?" Cain asks, shaking him. Charles feels his bones creaking and hopes that horrible cracking sound is the debris settling around him and not something inside of him breaking. "You sent me away. This should have been mine and you sent me away like the freak you are! You think you're so powerful, don't you? You think you're so good, like this is all yours, yours and that brat's! Like you have a right to it!"

"Cain, please!" Charles hisses, pain radiating down his side. Across the room, Hank groans from his place on the floor, staggering upwards.

"I'm here to take back what's mine!" Cain says. "And no one can stop me now! Not you--no one!"

Charles is flying through the air, but there's a burst of ear-rattling sound and Sean has him, a tapestry pulled around him and tucked into his pants as makeshift wings. They land hard, but much softer than Charles would have if he hit the wall. His shoulder aches, there's definitely something broken, the house is falling down around them, and his childhood nightmare is realized and standing right in front of him, poised to destroy everything he loves.

"Get back!" he shouts to all of them. "Get back, get back, get--"

Sean huffs, choking on a scream as he's yanked backwards by his ankle. Charles makes a feeble grab for him, but moving his left arm sends bolts of pain through his body and he stumbles. Alex is quicker--an uncontrolled blast of plasma energy shoots past Cain, narrowly missing Sean, and takes out the wall behind them. It's enough to startle Cain into dropping Sean, who limps away with surprising speed.

"What is this, a whole house of freaks now?" Cain asks. "Giving them what's supposed to be mine? Go on! Fire at me again! I can take it! I'm invulnerable! I'm the most powerful person on Earth and none of you sideshow scum can come near me! No one can come near me, least of all--"

Hank has the good sense to cut off Cain's painful monologuing, springing at him again.

It's Cain, Charles, it's Cain, Raven is babbling in his head. What's wrong with him, what's happening, what do we do--

I don't know! Charles responds with more force than he means to. Cain shrugs Hank off again, though Hank lands on his feet this time, and Charles suddenly remembers the gun on his hip. He fumbles for it, his hands shaking as he unclicks the safety and tries to stop trembling long enough to aim. He fires three shots, hissing at the way the kick reverberates through him, grinding into his bad arm so hard that he begins to lose his grip. The shots hit Cain--one in the armored chest, but the other two hit his arm. And fall uselessly to the ground.

Cain laughs.

"Bullets?" he asks. "You think bullets can stop me? And you're supposed to be the smart one! Nothing can stop me, brother--nothing."

He starts to run forward and Hank meets him halfway, only to be carelessly tossed aside. Raven, next, flies out of nowhere with a fireplace poker, hopping off a thrown table, flipping through the air, and aiming a blow from the poker right at the seam of the helmet. Smart girl, genius girl, his brilliant sister--but the poker rings hollowly and she, too, is thrown off as if she was nothing more than a rag doll.

Charles glances over his shoulder--Sean is collapsed against a wall, clutching his leg, but Alex is rushing forward, twisting his body in the familiar way that means an energy blast is coming and Charles prays to a higher power he doesn't believe in that the shot will hit its mark.

It doesn't.

The wall behind Cain explodes. The air is full of particles of dust and debris. Cain swings one huge hand and slaps Alex down to the ground. Charles scrambles to his feet, trying desperately not to bang his arm or put any pressure on that side of his body. Cain grins at him foully through the small gap in his helmet.

"Is that the best you've got, Chuck?" he asks. "A bunch of kids? Pathetic!" He lifts his foot, raises it over Alex. Charles' heart stops as Raven gasps and Sean cries out, "You can't!" The gun is useless, there's too much ground to cover, there's no time--

The air around Alex blurs. It twists ahove him, color twining and coalescing and--

Cain's foot comes down on armor plated back of Darwin.

Of Darwin.

Charles gapes. He can't find words, can't move, even as Cain tries to exert more force and Darwin remains staunchly unmoving, covering Alex's prone form.

"Alex! Move!" Darwin shouts, and Alex does, though he looks like he thinks he's dreaming, his eyes so wide they've nearly taken over his face. He scrambles out from under Darwin just as Darwin throws his weight into Cain and knocks him over. Cain staggers to regain his footing and Darwin yells, "Now, Alex! Hit him!"

This blast does hit its target. Cain goes flying through the wall and across the lawn, further and further back until he hits a tree loud enough that Charles can hear it from where he stands.

"Raven!" Charles calls out automatically. "Hank--are you two alright?"

"Darwin?" Raven responds, getting to her feet and lurching forward, ignoring Charles' call. "Armando, is that--it can't be--"

"Hey," Darwin says, grinning. He stands as well and puts a hand on Alex's upper arm, even as he looks at the rest of them. "Good to be back."

"Holy shit!" Sean murmurs, hopping across the floor towards the rest of them. "You were dead, man! We saw it!"

"Remarkable," Hank murmurs, leaning closer. "We saw you disintegrate. We assumed you were dead, of course, but given your mutation--"

"Exactly," Darwin says. "Adapt and survive." He turns to Alex, leans in close. "I told you," he says. "I told you I could take it."

Alex is still silent. He doesn't pull away, though; on the contrary, he curls his hand into Darwin's shirt and doesn't let go. Charles knows the feeling. He can't stop staring. Darwin is alive. He's right here with them, solid and breathing and suddenly the ghostly visions make sense.

"I hate to break this up, but that dude is getting up again," Sean says, pointing outside, where Cain is beginning to stir. Charles had hoped that blast would have kept him down longer. He needs time to think. They need a plan. They can't just keep throwing themselves at him over and over again--he's clearly too strong for that and there are already at least two injuries. If only they could get that bloody helmet off, Charles could take him out easily, but getting close--

"Hey!"

It's Angel, zipping back into the room.

"Moira and her boyfriend are on their way," she tells them. "Do we--Darwin?!"

"Hey," Darwin says, waving. Angel lands hard, staring at him. "Not dead. I promise."

"Darwin, I--"

"Charles, what's going on?"

And then Moira and a tall black man have joined them, both of them with guns out.

"We'll explain about Darwin later," Charles says, with an eye on Cain outside. He's sitting up, now. Their time is short. Moira glances at Darwin, obviously shocked, but she says nothing. "We need to get his helmet off. If we can get the helmet off, I can take him out, but it's obviously going to be hard to get that close. We can't keep running after him until he's too exhausted to keep throwing us around, because we'll tire long before he does. If there was just some way to keep him down...."

There has to be something. There has to be. He just has to think of it. It's right there, he knows it is.

"The security fence!" Hank says. "The new security fence I'm working on, it renders intruders immobile. It's just a prototype so far, but--it worked in tests on me. It's worth a shot."

"Good!" Charles says. "Excellent work, Hank. Is it in your lab?"

"Yes," Hank says. "But--well, the problem is getting it to work when it's upright. So far it works as more of a blanket or a net than a fence and--"

Net. If they could drop it from somewhere high...

The tree Cain is lying under is an option, but there's no way they'll be able to keep him there long enough to fetch the net. Charles glances around the pulverized remains of the room, around the worried faces of his students and colleagues, and the pieces start shifting into place on autopilot.

"Raven, run out to Hank's lab. Take Sean with you--you'll have to carry him," he says. "Get the fence netting and a proper pair of wings for Sean, then wait for us on the upstairs balcony of the ballroom next door. Sean, if you have a good distance to start, can you still fly with that broken leg?"

Sean considers quickly. "Yes," he says. "Like, sixty feet or so for a running start?"

"Splendid," Charles says. "Wait there for our mark. Alex, I'm going to need you to destroy the wall between this room and the next. There's more space in there and we'll need it if this is going to work. Someone's going to need to distract Cain for the time being, and once Sean and Raven get back, lure him back here. I think I should be sufficient bait for the latter part of that. Once he's in here, Hank or Darwin, you'll need to hide and catch him off guard. Knock him into the ballroom. If Sean can fly Raven over him, she can drop the net and Angel's acid should be enough to loosen the helmet so I can get inside. Hank, can you tell Raven how to work the fence?"

"I know how," Raven says. "I've been helping him test it."

"And we can distract Cain," Moira says, holding up her weapon.

"Bullets bounce right off of him," Charles says. "Not just the armor, his actual skin."

"I can help with that," the stranger--Nate, Charles supposes, although Nick is what he's getting from the man's mind. He pulls a different gun out of his holster, silver and sleek, the same basic shape as a pistol, but with a blue glowing chip in the bottom where a magazine should be. "Brand new prototype. I'm not supposed to take it out of the lab. Whoops."

"Wow," Moira says. "Can I take a look at that?"

"I don't normally let anyone handle my weapon until the third date," the man says. "But for you, I'll make an exception."

Moira rolls her eyes. "Just give me the goddamn gun," she says. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out another, though it's construction is slightly different, and hands it to her. They lock eyes and spend a beat too long staring at each other.

"Jesus christ, is this really the time?" Raven asks, and over her shoulder, Cain is starting back towards the house, letting out a roar of rage.

"It's really not," Charles agrees. "Everyone, please, go!"

Raven crouches down and gets a good grip on Sean over her shoulders and then they're off. Alex lets out another blast of plasma that only just knicks Cain. He stumbles, though, and Alex turns and uses the same blast to take out the wall into the ballroom before keeling over. Darwin's there with a hand on his back, while Nate, Moira, and Angel run out into the rain towards Cain.

Be careful! Charles tells everyone. He wishes, desperately, for a more offensive power. He wishes he could be doing anything other than standing by and waiting to do his part. Hank is crouching behind a crumbling wall, his eyes on the fight outside. Nate's strange weapons fire short blasts of blue energy that at least seem to have more of an effect on Cain than the bullets did, and he and Moira fire steadily, crisscrossing the lawn, while Angel flits above them, raining acid down on Cain and flying this way and that to distract him.

Charles follows Raven and Sean's progress by piggybacking onto Raven's mind. They're halfway to the lab, now, thanks to the increased speed and agility that Raven's natural form allows her. He checks on the children, too, cowering in the attic, all three of them crying and huddled together. He tries to soothe them as best he can from afar, smoothing out some of their anxieties as he watches Cain's wild chase on the lawn. A back part of his mind is bemoaning the amount of landscaping that will need to be redone if they survive this.

There's a tense moment when Cain goes sprawling and grabs for Moira, his hand closing around her leg. She goes down with a shout, but manages to roll over and get a shot into his shoulder. He lets her go, but it's clear he's done damage--she gets back to her feet with a painful wince and limps away, Angel and Nate smoothly swooping in to cover her and push Cain back in the other direction.

Raven and Sean are on their way back from the lab, now, racing towards them despite the added bulk of the box in Raven's arms. Cain's starting to cotton on to their distraction, though, Charles can tell. He glances away from Nate and Angel and makes eye contact with Charles across the ruins of the room.

"I'm getting bored, Chuck!" he shouts, and Charles wills Raven to run faster, prays that this will just be over soon. "Stop sending kiddies to fight your battles for you!"

Darwin jumps up, despite Alex's cry of protest, leaning over and growing armored plates again, rushing across the lawn and towards Cain, knocking him over once again.

They're almost here, Charles tells everyone as Raven races up the staircase that will take them to the second floor balcony. We just need another minute!

Nate and Moira come at Cain from behind, shooting at him continuously. The blasts still aren't enough to bring him down, but he staggers more than he did with the bullets. They herd him towards Darwin, who's catching blow after blow while slowly backing towards the house. Charles follows Raven and Sean's progress upstairs, as Raven rolls out the fence netting and activates it, as Sean attaches his wings as best he can as quickly as he can.

Get into position, quickly, Charles tells Raven and Sean. Hank, are you ready?

Ready, Hank says.

Alex, do you have anything left? he asks, though he can already see that Alex is too pale to be much good after letting go of so much without his chest plate to use as focus.

Maybe, he says stubbornly.

You're back-up, Charles says. Angel flits back into the house, hovering protectively over Charles.

This all goes wrong, I've got you, Prof, she says.

I appreciate that, Angel, Charles says. Darwin, Moira, Mr. Foley, bring him in.

"Cain, be reasonable!" Charles shouts, hoping that riling him up will keep him off his guard and that the whole thing won't backfire on them spectacularly. "I'm sure we can work through whatever's troubling you!"

"You're troubling me, Charlie!" Cain replies. "You get everything! You always have! And then you humiliate me? You send me away? My father was married to that bitch for six years! We should have gotten something! It should have been ours!"

He knocks Darwin away and comes running for Charles, just as Charles had hoped he might. Hank is waiting, and as soon as Cain gets into position, Charles' heart high in his throat, fear washing over him in cold waves, Hank springs forward with all he has, knocking Cain through the remains of the wall and into the ballroom.

The wood floor splinters under their combined weight, the walls shaking.

Now! he tells Sean and Raven, but they're already on the move, Sean's screaming reverberating off the walls and shattering the chandelier. Raven and Sean fly into view, and as Hank rolls out of the way, they drop the net straight down on Cain. It lands, and Raven hits a button on the control in her pocket.

There's a bright flash, so bright that the after image burns on Charles' eyelids when he turns away, and Cain screams, but aside from the scream, the room is silent. Charles opens his eyes again, and Cain is still down, held by the net that's glowing blue.

"Let me up!" Cain shouts. "Let me up!"

"Angel?" Charles asks shakily, and Angel flies over, spitting acid down along the edge of the helmet. Charles hears it sizzle as he approaches.

"Let me go!" Cain continues to yell. "You fucking let me go, you fucking freak, you fucking queer freak, I'll ruin you, I'm the one with the power now, I'll crush you!"

Even as the acid continues to settle, it's difficult to pull the helmet off. It's somehow attached to the rest of the armor. Darwin staggers to his feet and limps over to help, kneeling next to Cain and ripping the helmet off of him along the eaten away seam.

"No!" Cain shouts. "No! Get away from me! Leave me alone you psycho faggot!"

"Shut the fuck up, Cain!" Raven snarls. "Leave him alone! He's never done anything to you!"

"Calm yourself, Raven," Charles says with more composure than he feels. He sits down cross-legged by Cain's head. Cain's strangled scream of protest rings in Charles' ears as he presses his fingers against Cain's temple and dives inside.

He could do this without touching, but he wants to be sure. He wants as much control as he can get, in case Cain's new strength isn't limited to his body. He remembers, sadly, as he plunges into the dark depths of Cain's mind, how careful he used to be, how much pain Cain was in from the moment Charles met him. Charles never wanted to hurt him, not really, not knowing the abuse the boy already suffered, but any lingering sympathy disappeared when Cain tried to hurt his students, when he so carelessly assaulted Erik.

Cain's mind has always been dark, twisted corridors of jagged edges and cobwebs, pain shadowing everything. There's anger now, too. The anger has overtaken the pain, anger that starts as a red haze in the outer edges of Cain's mind and builds up to a glow.

Charles follows the light, the trail of red, through dark rooms and deserted halls, past memories they share and those they don't. This is the key, whatever it is in the center, it's the key to what's happened to Cain. He's not a mutant, that much Charles can be sure of now that the helmet is gone. His power comes from something else.

He slows as he approaches the center. The dilapidated corridors have faded into something more familiar. The carpet beneath his feet is dirt and brush. The walls fade into the thick trees of the jungle. Charles knows this. He's been here before. The humid press of the air, the branches sticking out into his path, and the desire to run are all so familiar, are directly out of the dreams he's been having lately.

Things are starting to coalesce in his mind. He picks up his pace, picking through the underbrush towards a stone structure in the distance, the source of the red light that's become more blinding the closer he gets. This, too, is familiar. The bone deep need to follow the red light, to hold that power in his hands has been a steady undercurrent in his visions. He's been sleepwalking every night trying to get his hands on it.

The stones under his feet are covered with moss as the jungle gives way to a path and the path leads right up to the stairs to the temple. The jungle seems to quiet around him, the roar and hiss tapering into heavy silence. Charles pushes past his fear, because he can do this. In this arena, he can easily best Cain. He's done it before and he can do it again. Cain might be stronger now, but so is Charles. He's felt the minds of all of the country under his fingertips and he's reached further and pushed harder because of it.

The light shining from the opening in the temple is blinding. Charles shades his eyes with one hand and walks straight into it, shoulders back, posture perfect. He's going to face this head on.

At the center of the room is an altar, and standing next to the altar is Cain. In his hands, he holds a red ruby that's glowing so bright that Charles can't look directly at it. Cain can, though. He's staring at it. It's the Cain that Charles knew--not even the man Charles is sure he grew into, but the eighteen year old boy who threw a chair at Charles when he heard of his father's death and wrapped his hands around Raven's throat in an angry chokehold. It's Cain exactly as he was when Charles last saw him, when Charles stole into his mind and tore down his mental defenses and sent him far away.

"Whosoever touches this gem shall be granted the power of the Crimson Gem of Cyttorak," Cain says, still staring at the gem. "Henceforth, you who utter these words, shall become, forevermore, a human juggernaut!"

He turns then, and looks at Charles, and Charles sees it. Rapidfire, in his own mind, Charles sees Cain's escape to the army, how it wasn't until a year into combat that he realized he was better than these people, that he should have wealth beyond his wildest dreams. That his father died in the biggest house Cain had ever seen, fueled by money in quantities he couldn't imagine. He should be living the high life, not rotting in some barracks. He'd run off, his anger burning bright, ashamed that he'd let that puny fairy stepbrother hurt him like this, that he'd let Charles fucking Xavier get the best of him. Charles thought he was powerful? Cain could be more powerful. Easily.

"And now I'm the most powerful!" Cain bellows. "Now I'm the Juggernaut--forever, Xavier! The strongest, the toughest, the more powerful person on Earth! I can crush you! You'll never be able to get at me, not with the things I've found!"

It's still playing out behind Charles' eyes--rumors of something that brought power, Cain's race to get it first, before the Russians who were searching for it. The armor he forged from the rough, strange metal he found in the temple. His search for Charles, his need to take back what he thought was rightfully his. Finding the house occupied, knowing he'd need the armor, the arduous process of shipping it piece by piece, sneaking in at night to collect each package, to put it back together while everyone was asleep, retreating off the property, still scared of Charles' powers but confident that as soon as he had the helmet he would be the best, waiting in the house after getting that final piece, luring Charles to him to hurt him, to take revenge--

"To take back what's mine!"

He runs at Charles then, the stone still clutched to his chest. Even at eighteen, Cain was bigger than Charles is now, but he dismisses the urge to run.

He doesn't have to. This isn't the physical world. This is where Charles reigns supreme.

He freezes Cain mid step, right where he stands. It's hard to pry the stone out of his frozen hands, but Charles manages. It's warm to the touch, and so bright, and there's a long moment where Charles stares down at it, tempted.

But then, it's not real. It's a manifestation of something that is real, somewhere. Something dangerous. Something that could destroy him the way it's laid waste to what little humanity existed in Cain before this.

He takes the stone and walks briskly out of the temple.

The jungle is denser when Charles emerges, darker. The trees are leaning over, reaching down for him, Cain's mind fighting back, trying to wrestle control, trying to defend itself. The branches pull at Charles, catch on his clothes, reaching for him as he strides past, picking up his pace. He pulls a fog around him, dense and dark, and walks more quickly, stumbling over the uneven ground, the bushes that spring from nowhere. He walks deeper into the forest, into the black, until it's not a forest at all anymore, just a pit of shadows. The ground underneath him shudders and shakes, cracks open, but he keeps going. He's jogging, now, wrapping himself in the fog, becoming nothing but a faint glow, fainter and fainter as he paints himself into the darkness, as he paints the gem into the darkness.

It's the depths of Cain's mind. It's the furthest reaches, the bleak hole of repressed memories, of long forgotten moments. It's the furthest Charles can get from Cain's conscious mind and he kneels down there and starts digging into the black.

It's thick tar, it's black sludge, and Charles pushes it aside, thrusts his hand down as deep as it will go with the gem still curled in his fist. He pushes down until he's buried to his shoulder, and then he opens his fingers.

His hand is cold where it had been holding the gem. It's harder to pull back then it was to push forward, and Charles struggles, his other hand sinking into the sludge as he braces himself. Little by little, he's able to retreat, and then one good yank and he's out, he's back on his feet, he's running back to the more familiar, to the cobwebs and the corridors and then he's back in his own head, collapsing backwards, his hands falling away from Cain, his shoulder crying out in agony, the excited and frightened voices of his students overwhelming him as he tries to catch his breath.

"It's done!" he gasps. "It's done, I've done it, it's gone--oh god."

He takes deep breaths. His shoulder is radiating pain and his hands are shaking.

"Charles, are you okay?" Raven asks, kneeling next to him.

"I'm fine," Charles assures her. "I'm fine. I just--" The last lingering impressions of the depths of Cain's mind fade away and the rest of the afternoon comes back to him in a rush. "Erik!"

He stumbles to his feet, half leaning on Raven with his good arm, and picks his way through the rubble and back into the room that was once Kurt Marko's office. Erik is exactly where Charles left him, still sprawled on the floor, his eyes closed and his color terrible. His mind is still active, though, and Charles can still feel the essence of Erik buried down deep in his resting consciousness. He falls to his knees next to Erik--just because his mind is whole doesn't mean his body is unharmed. The fingers of Charles' uninjured hand brush against the cut on Erik's forehead--sluggishly bleeding--and then gently down the rest of him, probing for anything that looks or feels out of place. There's no way of knowing for sure, not until they either wake him up or get him to a proper examining room, but Charles has to do something, has to have some reassurance before he loses it completely.

"Hey," Moira says, kneeling down next to him. "Hey, he's alright. He's gonna be fine." More quietly, just for Charles' ears, she adds, "They need you more than he does right now, okay?"

Charles turns around and takes in his bleeding, drenched, injured pupils. They're staring at him for guidance and he's moments away from a panic attack. He needs to calm himself.

He takes a deep breath and squeezes Moira's hand, hard. When he opens his eyes again, he forces a grim smile and allows Moira to help him to his feet.

"That was a remarkable thing you just did," he says to them. "You all did splendidly and I thank you for that. I couldn't be more proud." They smile at him, tentatively, tiredly, through sweat and grime and blood. "Now, we're not quite done yet. Cain will be out through the night at least, I made sure of it, and these rooms are a wash, but we need to move everyone back to the main part of the house. I want us all checked out in the infirmary once Hank is a bit more steady, and then we'll need to put Cain in the bunker, just in case."

"I've got a bit of medical training," Nate says. "Field triage, mostly, but it doesn't look like there's anything here I can't handle."

"We would greatly appreciate that, Mr. Foley," Charles says.

"Fury," Nate says. "Nick Fury. I'll explain once we've got everyone settled."

"Good," Charles says faintly. "Good. Thank you."

He takes one last look at Erik, steels himself, and turns back to the children.

"Okay," he says. "We've got some work to do."

***

The aftermath is possibly more tiring than the battle itself. It takes the combined strength of everyone who didn't sustain an injury to get Cain Marko down to the bunker and locked away for the night. Although Erik is much lighter, between Charles' dislocated shoulder and broken clavicle, Moira's broken ankle, and Sean's broken leg, they can't very well carry him themselves, so they're stuck waiting in the damp, drafty ruins of the ballroom until Raven and Nate--Fury--return.

After dragging the screaming, hysterical children back to the other side of the house, Nate Foley was the last person Moira expected to see bursting in through the front doors. After a few seconds of utter confusion, she'd thrown Ororo at him and ordered him to follow her up the stairs. They'd left the children on the third floor and told them to go up to the attic and hide until someone they knew told them it was okay to come out.

"What are you doing here, Nate?" she'd asked as they ran back down the stairs.

"It's a long story," he'd said. "And one that I doubt you'll believe right off the bat, so for the moment know that my real name is Nick Fury and I'm here to help with whatever is beating the crap out of you people." He pulled out a gun, then, and Moira appreciated that he understood there wasn't time for questions, even as her brain was screaming a million of them from all angles.

She'd sent Angel ahead with the news and her mind was so focused on downing the threat and protecting her people that it hadn't even occurred to her until afterwards that Fury was walking among a blue girl, a girl with wings, and a giant blue teddy bear without batting an eyelash. He hadn't balked at Charles' near histrionics over Erik, either.

She's not sure exactly what that means, but she can't imagine it's good news for their budding relationship.

"It's just us," Raven says. "Darwin passed out once we got down there and dropped off Cain. Hank says he's fine, just probably exhausted from coming back to life and then beating the crap out of our lunatic stepbrother, but Alex freaked, of course, so Hank's getting them situated in a bed somewhere."

"But Darwin will be okay, right?" Sean asks. "I mean, he can't die again. That would suck."

Moira barely refrains from rolling her eyes.

"He'll be fine," Fury assures Sean. "A little rest will do him good."

"Can you walk?" Raven asks Moira, moving to help her off the floor.

"Near enough," she says. "Get Erik before your brother has a meltdown."

"Charles will be fine," Raven says dismissively, but she and Fury move to lift Erik off the ground. Fury manages to get Erik over his shoulder in a fireman's carry, much to Charles' obvious dismay. "He's fine, Charles. How are you?"

"I can walk," Charles says.

"Then help Sean," Raven says, and then the six of them are limping back towards the others.

After that, there's a lot of talking and clean-up and medical care. Angel fetches the children while Fury and Hank draft Raven into helping them clean wounds and run around getting warm, dry clothes for everyone. Sean's leg is broken and Moira's ankle is broken, but a run through Hank's patchwork x-ray machine shows that they'll both be fine. Fury has to wrench Charles' shoulder back into place, which luckily happens before the children return because Charles screams bloody murder and swears up a storm. Even with his shoulder relocated, though, he needs to keep his arm in a sling for his broken collar bone to heal properly.

None of them are in great shape, but it's better than the alternative. It could have been much worse.

"Well," Charles says once everyone's been tended to and Erik is tucked into a bed in the makeshift infirmary. His voice is steadier than Moira expects. "Dinner, I think."

He leads the troupe back towards the dining room. Ororo and Jean stick close to him. Hank is behind them, stepping a bit more carefully in deference to his bruised ribs and holding Scott's hand. Angel and Raven hover close to Sean, who's wobbling on his crutch, leaving Fury to walk in step with Moira all the way to the dining room.

"So," he says. "I suppose we should talk."

"I suppose we should," Moira says without looking at him. "But not until after dinner. There's a house rule about fighting during dinner."

Fury huffs a surprised laugh.

"Of course there is," he says, and pulls Moira's chair out for her at the table.

Jesus, he's driving her crazy.

Dinner is all of the leftovers that Raven and Angel can find in the kitchen and any food that doesn't need to be prepared. Despite the exhausting evening, Moira doesn't do much more than pick at half a meatloaf sandwich. No one eats much, really, save for the children, who are quieter than usual, but retain the same appetites.

"I can't believe Darwin's back," Angel says quietly.

"I can't believe Cain is back," Raven says. She makes eye contact with her brother. They both look sick at the words.

"He won't be for long," Fury says, which gets everyone's attention. "Dr. Xavier, if I could have a word with you and Agent MacTaggert after dinner?"

Moira wants very badly to say, How the fuck do you know my real name? Instead, she says, even and cool, "I'm not an agent anymore."

Fury doesn't say anything, but his look says We'll see in a way that makes Moira nervous.

Charles sends the children up to bathe and change for bed and has the teens clean up so he can lead Moira and Fury out of the dining room and off towards his office. It's all very professional; they stay quiet and cordial until they're all neatly seated around Charles' desk and Moira turns to Fury and says, "Who the fuck are you?" in the type of voice that's usually backed up by a gun.

"Calm down, Agent MacTaggert," Fury says.

"Don't call me that!" Moira snaps. "You've been using me!"

"Yes," Fury replies. He doesn't elaborate. Helplessly, Moira glances at Charles, who's quiet and as composed as he can be with his arm in a sling as he hovers on the precipice of a nervous breakdown. Charles is a psychic though, and if this was going to be a problem, she's pretty sure he would have intervened.

Probably.

"Okay," she says. "Talk."

"Dr. Xavier, Agent MacTaggert, my name is Colonel Nick Fury," he says. "What I'm about to tell you is classified by every government on Earth and I don't expect to have any issues with it staying that way." It's a thinly disguised threat, but, again, Charles isn't moving. He's leaning his good elbow on the desk, propping up his head thoughtfully. His eyes are narrowed in interest. "I'm sure you're familiar with the war icon Captain America?"

Moira remembers him from when she was a kid. He sang and danced on the newsreels before films, selling war bonds. A big, hulking blonde guy with a kind face.

"Yes," Charles says. "Of course."

"What would you say if I told you that Captain Rogers--Captain America--really was a super soldier? That his physique and abilities were manufactured in a lab in order to combat enemies from another world."

"Like, martians?" Moira says flatly, but Fury's not laughing and neither is Charles.

"Not quite so close to home, but yes," Fury says. Moira wishes she still had her gun, because this guy is clearly nuts and she's taking no chances. "I know it sounds absurd, Agent MacTaggert, but it's not science fiction. There are threats out there that we couldn't imagine in the most fantastical stories. One such threat fell into Nazi hands during the war and we almost lost because of it. In the aftermath, the United Nations decided to establish a defense force, an organization beyond any one government that would be on call to protect the world from these threats, should they resurface. They founded the Strategic Hazard Intervention, Enforcement, and Logistics Directorate. S.H.I.E.L.D. for short."

"Hold up," Moira says. "This is too much. You waltz in here and you expect us to believe that not only do flying saucers exist, but that there's some secret organization to fight them? That the Nazis were aided by little green men?"

"You can question me all you want, Agent MacTaggert," Fury says. "But your friend's been reading my mind since we sat down in this room, and I don't see him questioning my story so far."

Moira glances at Charles and--well, yes. He's still leaning forward, staring at Fury as if he's a puzzle that needs completing. But he's not shouting. Or rolling his eyes. Or laughing Fury out of the room.

"Charles?" she asks.

"I'm afraid so, darling," he says absently. "The things this man has seen...."

"We know what's out there," Fury says. "And we know, through our CIA mole, what you can do."

"I should have done a better job of purging those files," Moira mutters.

"Oh no," Fury says. "You did an excellent job of that. But the CIA wrote you off. They underestimated you and when you disappeared, they didn't dig too deeply. We knew better. We looked for you. We found you, eventually, and we were happy to find you with Xavier and Lehnsherr and those kids."

A flare of warning goes up and down Moira's spine. She tenses, but before she can spring to action, Charles says, "No, he doesn't want to destroy us. He wants to recruit us."

"SHIELD has seen shit that you wouldn't believe. That you couldn't imagine," Fury says, leaning forward towards Moira. "We're not afraid of you so-called mutants. We're not in the government's pocket and we know a good thing when we see it. We don't want to hurt you; we want to use you. There are things out there beyond anything we have here on Earth. It would be good to have our own surprises to hurl back at them."

"This is all very interesting, Mr. Fury," Charles says. "But you must understand that Moira and I need to have several conversations with our colleague before we can even being to entertain the idea of affiliating with you in any way."

"I do understand, of course," Fury says. "Take your time. It's been a rough night. For the moment, I mostly bring it up because we have...let's call them containment cells...that can hold your stepbrother more securely than any prison."

Moira hadn't even thought about what they're going to do with Cain now that they've subdued him. They obviously can't just let him out in the world, and Fury's right: no jail could hold him. Charles frowns, but it's one of resignation more than anything else. Of course Charles has considered the question. It's his stepbrother, his living nightmare. He doesn't have any choice.

"That would be...very helpful," Moira manages to say. It's calm and measured and devoid of emotion, particularly the violently betrayed emotion that's simmering right beneath her skin as she thinks of the two stupid dates she went on with this man, of the fact that she kissed him and let him hold her hand, oblivious to the fact that he'd been lying to her the entire time.

"There's a truck in one of the garages," Charles says. The words sound painful. "Hank and Raven and Angel can help you get him out into it."

"Thank you, Dr. Xavier," Fury says. "I'll bring it back tomorrow and we can talk a little more once your colleague wakes up."

He manages to say "colleague" in a way that makes it clear he thinks that "spouse" would be a closer description while simultaneously making it just as clear that he doesn't care. Moira almost hates him.

"Thank you, Colonel," Charles says. "I'll go fetch Hank for you, shall I?"

"Charles--" Moira starts to say, but Charles ignores her and leaves the room much more quickly than Moira would have thought possible.

Neither Fury nor Moira speak for a painfully long minute.

"Agent MacTaggert," Fury finally says. Moira keeps staring straight ahead. "Mar--Moira."

"I don't really want to talk to you right now," Moira says without looking at him.

More silence. She's going to kill Charles.

"Will you want to talk to me tomorrow?" Fury asks.

She desperately wants to have a very unattractive, very juvenile, very stereotypical weepy tantrum. She hates herself. She wasn't even sure she liked Nate Foley.

But, that's not true, is it? If she hadn't liked him, the fact that something was bothering her...well, wouldn't have bothered her. She'd never have agreed to a second date. She wouldn't have cared.

She hates caring. Being friends with Charles and Erik is hard enough. Life was, in some ways, easier in the dark, nebulous, post-Joe years.

"Maybe," she says.

"Good," he says.

They keep quiet until Charles returns with Raven, Hank, and Angel in tow. He looks almost disappointed to find them sitting in the same positions, not looking at each other, as if he expected to walk in on them necking on his desk.

"Colonel, Hank, Raven, and Angel will assist you," Charles says. "Please feel free to come by whenever's convenient tomorrow. I doubt I'll be sleeping much."

He says it with a wry smile that just serves to highlight the hollow look of him, the circles beneath his eyes. Charles has been sleeping poorly for days now, and she knows he's not going to dare sleep while Erik is still unconscious. She's not sure how he's still standing.

"I'll be sure to do that," Fury says. "It's been a pleasure, Doctor. I look forward to speaking with you tomorrow."

Moira doesn't watch him go. She doesn't sigh when the door closes, either. Of course, neither of those things really matter when she has Charles Xavier in her head, fully aware that she wanted to do both.

"You should talk to him," Charles says, not unkindly. "He really did like you, you know."

"He lied to me," Moira says. "He used me."

"You lied to him too," Charles reminds her. "Anyway, I do believe it's bedtime. We should round up the children. I have a feeling sleep won't be easy for them tonight."

"They're not the only ones," Moira mutters, but she follows Charles dutifully out of the room, only looking slightly deranged on her still-new crutch.

An hour of being scared and crying must have tuckered them out, because Scott and Jean put themselves to bed with little fuss, and while Ororo gets teary when it becomes clear Erik won't be coming in to say goodnight, Charles sits with her and reads her a story and before long, she's sleeping as well. The rest of the floor is quiet--Alex is still in with Darwin, but the others have gathered in the den.

They're sitting closely together on two sofas when Moira and Charles join them. The conversation tapers off, and Hank gets up from his seat to allow Moira to sit close to the fire.

"Thanks, Hank," she says. She's too tired to argue and her foot is killing her.

"I was just catching everyone up on...the whole Cain thing," Raven says.

Charles' smile is strained.

"I suppose there's no way we could talk about happier topics?" he asks, and Raven must see what Moira sees--the tension around his eyes, the stiffness of his posture, the slight tremor in his hand--because she says, "Sure," easy as anything. There's just one awkward beat before she asks Angel if she had any idea about Alex and Darwin and the conversation has swung around to gossip and memories of their time at the CIA training base.

Moira elbows Sean in the side and he slides further down the sofa, making enough room for Charles to sit between them. He sits close to Moira, closer than he has to, pressing his uninjured side against hers and she allows the easy physicality. He's not the only one getting comfort out of it.

They talk for a long time, longer than Moira would have thought they could after the events of the afternoon. Slowly, though, they start to drift. Sean first, but the others soon follow. Raven's the last to go to bed--she almost always is, Moira finds, always lingering longest to make sure everyone's all right, that Charles is all right. Moira assumes it's the remnant of years of living with him and only him, a sibling connection that they'll never totally shake. Still, tonight she can see that Charles is seconds away from shaking out of his skin, so she does her best to subtly hurry the process along until they're hugging in the doorway of the library and Charles is promising Raven that all the children can sleep in the next morning.

When she leaves, he closes the door and then leans against it. He looks ashen, worse than he did when Cain dislocated his shoulder, and Moira resists the strong urge to pull him into her arms and bundle him up like a child. She thinks he should look old after all the stress of the past few days, but instead he looks ten years younger and vulnerable, like he needs to be protected despite being one of the most powerful people on the planet.

"Take a breath, Charles," she says, and he opens his eyes. The light in the library is muted and golden and masks the vivid color of his eyes. It makes his skin look sallow and waxy. "We're through it. We've made it. The kids are fine. Darwin's back. You and I are fine. Erik will be fine."

"I know," Charles says. "I know, I know. I just." He takes her advice, pulls a long breath in and holds it, closing his eyes again. "I've worked very hard to keep myself together," he says. "In front of the children, you understand. They look to us for leadership. It won't do for them to see their professor--their headmaster, really--having hysterics."

He blinks at her, smiling wryly, and Moira just shakes her head. "It's okay, Charles," she says.

"It almost wasn't," he says. "And it's ludicrous, I know, everyone's fine but there's quite a bit of excess adrenaline running through my veins and I think I've been very good considering how loudly I wanted to scream when Erik hit the floor."

To hell with it, Moira thinks and crosses the room. Charles is nearly shaking apart and she doesn't blame him. She and Lehnsherr aren't even quite friends and she still gasped when he went down. She's surprised Charles didn't lose it on the spot.

She very carefully pulls Charles into a hug, mindful of his sling and broadcasting the movement, giving him ample time to pull away while doing her best to project calm and comfort and affection. He wraps his good arm around her, his breath noisy in his throat, his eyes wet where he presses his face into her shoulder. He's still shaking and she does her best to reign him in, keep him together.

"All the kids are safe," she says. "Safe and in bed and you can freak out now. I won't tell anyone, I promise."

Charles laughs, or tries to, but the sound is choked and his grips tightens, his hands fisting in her sweater.

"I thought he was dead," he whispers, words ragged. "I was frozen on the spot and I thought, 'Christ, no, not again, I can't let him hurt the people I love again, I can't--'"

"You did good," Moira says, rubbing his back. "You did a good job, Charles. You kept everyone safe. You took him down. You're not a scared little boy any more."

"I'm sorry," Charles says against her neck. "I don't know what's gotten into me. I'm not--"

"You just beat a formidable enemy, helped someone become corporeal, and comforted a house of hysterical kids, all on your own," she says. "Erik's in the infirmary and you're here. You're allowed to be a little off-center and I don't think anyone would judge you if you camped out in there tonight."

"I thought he was dead," he repeats, and anything else he was going to say is swallowed by a sob. Moira strokes a hand through his hair and shushes him, murmuring reassurances until his tears dry up and he stops shaking enough to make the long trek to the infirmary.

 

***

Despite Moira's assurances that no one would think twice if he decided to sleep in the infirmary, Charles checks to make sure the children are sleeping no less than a dozen times before he turns out the lights. The only person still awake is Alex, sitting on the edge of Darwin's bed and carrying on a vigil not dissimilar from Charles' own. It's touching, but it also makes something ache in Charles' chest. How difficult it must have been for Alex all these years, to be so misunderstood and so different.

Maybe things can change for him, now. Maybe he won't be so angry.

"Maybe things can change for all of us," Charles says softly, though Erik is still sleeping and there's no one else to hear him.

It's odd, being so close to Erik but not touching him. Charles has stretched out, still fully clothed, on the bed next to Erik's. There are maybe six feet separating them, but it feels so much further. As his eyes adjust to the dark, he can make out Erik's profile, the familiar shape of his brow and the tip of his nose, unmoving in the stillness. He wants to lay his hand on Erik's brow, though he knows it's a selfish gesture. It won't mean anything to Erik, who's still asleep. It would be solely for Charles' own benefit, to remind himself that Erik is there, that his heart is beating and he's breathing and he's warm and within reach.

Sleep is long in coming--every noise leaves him on edge. Even though he knows that Cain is gone, that they're alone in the house and they're not being haunted, he flinches as the pipes creak and the floorboards squeak. It's an old house; it makes noises. He knows that. He thought the noises soothing in his youth, even. His nanny told him once it was the sound of the house settling and he liked the idea that the house was taking root, was settling in with the intention to stay. He liked that idea of permanency, of something old and reliable. There weren't a great many things in Charles' young life that were reliable.

He coasts over Erik's mind again and again, feeling the familiar wisp of Erik that's buried deep down under the dark blanket of unconsciousness. He knows that, if he wanted to, he could wrap himself around that bit of Erik that's within reach and pull it upwards, but there's no telling what damage that would do to Erik's brain. He can't risk it, even though, at this moment, he wants nothing more than to see Erik look at him.

It won't be long. Charles can tell. He'll be awake within a few hours, almost assuredly. Charles just has to wait.

He falls asleep waiting, his dreams muted and distant, never sleeping deeply enough for them to take hold. He wakes several times, each time instinctively reaching out for Erik and sighing quietly at the discovery that Erik is still sleeping. The way his arm is immobilized isn't helping. Each shift against the uncomfortable bed sends an shot of pain through his shoulder and collarbone. He knows that his bed upstairs would be heavenly in comparison--soft and large enough that he can shift without hurting himself as much. It's stupid to stay down here while Erik sleeps, but Charles can't bring himself to leave. He doesn't know if he could forgive himself if Erik woke up alone.

When he wakes for good, it's morning, but just barely. The light filtering in through the shades is grey and faint. The clock on the wall reads six am. Erik is still sleeping, and Ororo is standing at the foot of the bed.

"Are you sick too?" she asks quietly.

"I'm not sick, darling," he assures her. He rubs at his eyes and inches back on the bed until he's left a space just large enough for her small body. He pats and the bed and she scrambles up next to him, curling against him and staring up at him.

"If you're not sick, then why are you here?" she asks.

"I wanted to make sure I was close in case Erik woke up last night," Charles says. "I didn't want him to wake up alone."

"He's still sleeping," she says, rolling over to look at him. Charles very carefully doesn't wince when she jostles his injury. "He's been sleeping forever. Since before dinner. I thought he'd wake up soon."

"He will, darling," Charles assures her. "He'll wake up very soon. But it was very tiring, fighting like he did. He needs his rest."

"He'll be okay, right?" Ororo asks. She turns back again, looking up at Charles beseechingly. The pain in his arm isn't the only thing he needs to swallow back, and he can only nod at her. "Good," she says. "I love Erik and I don't want him to be hurt."

"I love Erik too," Charles says. "I promise he'll be fine."

Ororo rests her head against Charles' chest, watching Erik just as intently. Charles gently rests his good arm around her and hopes, for all their sakes, that Erik wakes before the rest of the children do.

***

Moira expects she'll sleep for an age, but despite the excitement of the night before and the hours she spent staring at the ceiling, reviewing the events of the day, scrutinizing every step she took, once seven am rolls around, her eyes open and she's awake again.

She normally sleeps better after a case, soundly and for hours. She blames her alertness on the fact that this one's not quite closed yet. Erik's still unconscious, the far wing of the house is still in shambles, and there are just a few too many loose ends for her mind to be able to let it all rest.

She hobbles into the shower and manages to wash and change without too many catastrophes. She's not graceful with the crutch, not by a long shot, but there's no one awake to see her struggles and by the time she makes it down to the infirmary, she's worked out a system and looks marginally competent as she moves.

She needn't worry, however--when she arrives at the infirmary, Erik is still asleep, and Charles is so focused on him that it takes Ororo calling, "Moira!" in excited greeting for him to notice her arrival at all.

"Be careful, darling," he murmurs as Ororo struggles down to the ground and runs up to Moira. She stops short of an embrace, hesitating when she sees Moira's crutch and he cast on her leg.

"It's okay," Moira assures her, and holds out the arm not supporting the crutch. Ororo comes closer, hugging Moira's good leg. Moira reaches down to ruffle her hair. "Erik's still sleeping, huh? What a lazybones!"

Ororo giggles at that, and some of the tension breaks. Hers, at least. Charles looks terrible, like he hasn't slept at all. Moira wouldn't be surprised.

"Hey, can you do us a favor, munchkin?" she asks. "It's a biiiig favor."

"I can!" Ororo insists immediately. "What is it?"

Moira's going to have to train her out of agreeing before she hears the terms of a deal, but at the moment she's not above taking advantage of it.

"Can you sit here and watch Erik for us?" she asks. "I'm going to take Charles on a walk for a few minutes, but I don't want Erik to be alone if he wakes up."

"I can do that!" Ororo assures her. "I'll sit right here!"

She scrambles up onto the chair next to Erik's bed and looks to Moira for approval.

"Great!" Moira says. "We won't be gone long at all, and I'm sure Erik will be very happy to see you when he wakes up."

Ororo beams at her and Moira limps over to the other bed, gesturing for Charles to get down.

"I should--" he tries to say, but she shakes her head.

"On your feet, Xavier," she says. "Have you slept at all?"

He shrugs weakly with the arm not swaddled against his chest.

"You need a walk and a cup of tea," Moira says. Maybe she can get some breakfast into him, too. He barely looks better now than he did when he was crying in her arms last night and she's sure he doesn't want a repeat of that in front of the children. Boost his blood sugar and energy, dispel the last of the tension and gloom, and have him as close to normal as possible by the time Erik is awake. It's the least Moira can do for Erik.

"I'm fine," he tries to tell Moira.

"Come on," she says. "Don't keep me waiting."

Ororo giggles and Charles reluctantly, slides off the bed, his eyes locked on Erik's still-sleeping form. They stay that way until he's forced to turn, following Moira back into the hallway.

"I can feel him," he tells her once they're alone. "He's right there, right under the surface. I could pull him back--I think he's just sleeping now, but if he's hurt and he needs the sleep...."

"But he's there?" Moira asks. "All the parts of him? All of him is there?"

"Yes," Charles says.

"Then everything's going to be fine," Moira tells him, and squeezes his good shoulder with her free hand.

Charles gives her a watery smile and allows himself to be shepherded away. The kitchen is empty when they get there, and Charles' manners kick in as soon as Moira moves for the kettle.

"No, no, no," he says. "Sit, my god. I don't know how you're even standing."

"I'm fine," Moira says. It's only half a lie.

"I insist," Charles says, and fills the kettle with water before he joins Moira at the table.

The silence they sit in isn't uncomfortable. Quite the opposite, in fact. Moira wonders if this isn't the first time Charles has come even close to being relaxed since this whole mess started. She reaches across the table and takes his hand, squeezing his fingers.

"You know," he says, looking down at their joined hands, "I'm torn between guilt and relief. I'm not crazy. I've not been losing control. Every strange thing has an explanation. But at the same time, it's hard to be triumphant when I've brought such ruin to our lives."

"It's no one's fault but Cain Marko's," Moira tells him. She leans in close and makes him look up at her. "He's a bully. You did nothing to provoke him, at least nothing that couldn't be helped. You rallied the kids and you beat him. You did everything right. Erik's going to tell you the same thing when he wakes up."

The whistling tea kettle interrupts them, which is probably for the best--Charles' eyes look wet and bright and she knows he'd probably rather not cry all over her two days in a row. He gets up and busies himself making them tea. Moira eyes her crutch dubiously and decides to avoid getting up more than she needs to. There's a fruit bowl within reach and a steak knife left out, so by the time Charles has returned with the tea, there's a neat pile of sliced fruit waiting for him. Moira prefers coffee, but she's not sure she trusts Charles to make it, so she accepts the tea gratefully and they sip and snack in silence.

"What was going on with him?" Moira asks eventually. She's thinking over the night before again--she can't help but replay fights over and over in the aftermath, until she understands all angles. Charles had started to explain before the panic kicked in, and while she understands that at the time, hyperventilating over his lover's prone body was probably a priority, she'd like to know now that things have calmed down. "The helmet, the armor...I imagine he wasn't the size of a tank when you last saw him. You said he had something that changed him?"

Charles closes his eyes and rubs his forehead.

"Between Cain's mind and the dreams I think I've been able to piece it together," he says. He opens his eyes and leans back in his chair. "While he was in the army, he heard rumors about a stone that would give him great power. He's held a grudge all this time and wanted a way to get back at me, so he went looking for it."

"Held a grudge, really?" Moira asks dryly. "You don't say."

Charles glares at her.

"He found the stone, the gem, in a temple," Charles says. "It was calling to him and he managed to get there before anyone else. He ran off with the stone and it was...imbued with some sort of power. He read the inscription on it and...." He frowns. "There was a red flash and the next thing he remembers is waking up...big. For lack of a more precise term."

"Interesting," Moira says. "Weird. I don't know that I buy it."

Charles' shrug is almost graceful in his exhaustion. "It's what he believes to be true, and I can find nothing in his mind to prove otherwise," he says. "Plus, knowing what we now know about your friend and his line of work--it doesn't seem so out of the realm of possibility."

"Mysticism and aliens," Moira says flatly. She still doesn't know that she believes it. Everything else he's told you about himself so far has been a lie, she reminds herself. It stings a little--okay, a lot--but she needs that sting. It's a good reminder of why this was a terrible idea in the first place.

"I would very much like to discuss it with him further," Charles says. "Do let me know when he returns this morning, if I'm otherwise indisposed."

In the infirmary, he means, and a sort of pallor sweeps over him again. The fruit is mostly gone and he's stirring his tea idly without drinking it. Time for another distraction. Not just for him--Moira's not sure what she's ready to say to Fury when he returns.

"Let's take a walk," she says. He eyes her crutch. "Oh, come on, we're not running a marathon. We're talking a walk. I can handle it."

She doesn't have a destination in mind, but when they leave the kitchen they wander towards the foyer and once they're standing there, Charles' eyes keep straying towards the hall that leads to the far wing.

"Do you want to go take a look?" she asks. She's morbidly curious herself. They ran out of there so quickly that she didn't even have time to assess the damage. She's sure it's trashed, but she'd still like to see it for herself.

"Is that gruesome?" he asks. "I just...maybe it will make the whole thing seem more real. I can't shake the feeling that it's all some terrible dream."

"It's not gruesome at all," Moira says. "I was just thinking the same thing myself, actually."

If Charles is relieved by her agreement, it doesn't show. He leads the way down the hall, simultaneously brazen and wary. It must be how he spent most of his childhood, torn between the regal privilege of his upbringing and the fear inspired by his step-family. He slows as he turns down the hall, though, and Moira is hobbling next to him by the time they take the final steps into what was an ornate study.

The furniture is in splintered into unrecognizable pieces. Half the far wall is missing, and the debris parts in a long muddy skid in the landscaping. Bits of ceiling litter the floor and wires and pipes hang down at odd angles. The left wall is also destroyed, leading into the broken and charred hardwood floors of the ballroom. Everything is caked in dried plaster that had clumped together in the last of yesterday's rain. Any books or knick-knacks that survived the carnage are waterlogged and unsalvageable.

"It's trashed," Moira says. There's a note of wistfulness in her voice as she surveys the damage, leaning on her crutch. This had been a beautiful place. More than that, it's their home. It was a place the children felt safe. She hopes that hasn't been ruined for them.

"It's just things," Charles says. He stands straighter. His posture is loose and relaxed, the opposite of what Moira expected. "Ugly things, mostly. Pointless things. My mother's things and my stepfather's things."

"Still," Moira says, "it's your home."

A peculiar thing happens. As Charles' shoulder lifts in a shrug, so does the corner of his mouth. It's not a forced smile, though the edges are frayed and desperate, but she suspects it may be actual closure.

"Kurt had boxed up anything belonging to my father long ago," Charles says. "This was his wing. His office. And--well, I suppose it's somewhat cathartic, seeing it like this. We were going to renovate anyway. I'm not upset, I'm just..."

"Relieved?" Moira suggests. He looks around the room slowly, taking it all in and nods.

"Yes," he says. "Relieved." His eyes linger on a spot in the carpet that's stained a dark rust color. The sight of Erik's body crumpled in that space is still fresh in her mind. "Very relieved," he echoes.

Moira shakes her head in disbelief. She can't help smiling.

"You're something else, Charles," she says. "I have no idea how you can always manage to be so optimistic. I also have no idea how Erik doesn't smother you in your sleep."

"I don't think he does, either," Charles says faintly. He looks up at her again. He's exhausted and pale, but not quite as grey as he was this morning. There's a light in his eyes that's been missing as of late. What a relief it must be, knowing that he wasn't as unstable as he'd feared, finding the source of his nightmares and erratic behavior, and conquering his greatest childhood fear all in one day.

And then, abruptly, his face lights up. Moira doesn't even have to ask.

"Erik's awake," she says. He answers with a quick nod, relief rolling off him so strongly that Moira can feel it seeping into her head. She can't blame him, no matter how many times she assured Charles and the children that Erik was fine, he'd just hit his head and needed to sleep it off, she had quietly been just as concerned, the longer Erik slept.

"He's just woken," Charles says.

"Well, go on then," Moira says. "I know you want to rush to his bedside to coddle him."

"I merely want to see that he's okay," Charles says, tipping his chin up mulishly, even as his cheeks color. "I doubt Erik would allow himself to be coddled by anyone."

"I think he'd make an exception for you," Moira says. She offers Charles the arm that's not leaning on her crutch. "Come on. Let's go visit the convalescent."

Charles takes her arm with his free hand, though she won't let him support her weight despite the cast on her leg, and allows her to set the pace towards the makeshift infirmary. She tries to walk as quickly as she can manage. She can feel him vibrating with energy

"He won't appreciate you calling him a convalescent, you know," Charles says.

"I know," Moira says. "That's why I plan to do it at least twice. And also mention how you manfully saved the day after he was hit on the head. And maybe throw in two or three references to Jean's hit. Not because she's a girl, mind, but because she's eleven."

"You're impossible, the both of you," Charles says, but there's no bite to it.

"Yeah, but you like it," Moira says. "It keeps you on your toes."

"The teenagers weren't enough, then?" Charles asks.

"Nope," Moira says. "But spirited debate builds character, so we're really doing you a favor."

"Is that what your childish teasing is called? I'll keep that in mind," Charles says dryly.

"Fine, fine," Moira says. "Let's speed it up, Xavier. Someone needs to kiss Erik's head wound to make it better and I'm certainly not volunteering for the job."

"You're terrible," Charles says, but he picks up the pace, his mind projecting endless warmth as they hobble back towards the rest of the house.

***

Erik's first thought is that Charles has kicked off all the blankets again.

It lingers in his mind for a moment, a gentle rebuke that he'll deliver with a kiss because Charles can't help himself and he radiates heat, anyway, so it's not as if Erik needs the blankets.

Those thoughts loop in his head in the hazy fog of sleep before he realizes that he can't feel Charles. There is no other body pressed against his, he's not in their bed, there's metal everywhere, he can't feel Charles at all--

He sits too quickly. His head swims at the movement and beside him, there's a high pitched shriek.

"Erik!"

His vision is still swimming as he turns towards his name, Ororo a warm brown and bright white blur that coalesces into the image of a bouncing young girl.

"Erik! Erik! You're awake! Erik!"

He squeezes his eyes shut. Cain Marko. In the house. Coming after the kids, after Charles, but if Erik is laid up in the infirmary and Ororo is cheerfully sitting next to him, they've escaped, at least for the moment.

He's still shaking, though. He needs to know what happened. He needs to make sure everyone's unharmed. He failed them, he should have protected them and he was tossed out of the fight so easily he was useless.

"I am, Schatz," he croaks. He thinks, Charles? Charles!

He's flooded with relief and desperate affection that carries the particular flavor of Charles.

Oh, thank god. You're awake, you're-- The distinct thoughts cut off again tumbling back into a whirlwind of emotions without words.

Are the children--

Everyone's fine, everything's fine, better than fine, Darwin--oh, I'll be there in a minute.

"Erik?" Ororo asks. He blinks. She's sitting on her knees and staring at him suspiciously. "Are you and Charles having a grown-up talk?"

"We are," Erik says. "We were. How are you, little one?"

He does a quick self-inventory--he has a splitting headache and his whole body is throbbing, but nothing feels broken inside or out. There's a bandage on his head, but no casts. He thinks he might have stitches under the bandage, but he can't be sure. Still, it could be much worse. He hopes he's the worst of the injuries. He should know. He should have been there. Taking care of these people is his job, it's the only job that matters anymore.

"I had bad dreams," she admits. "But now you're awake! Moira and Charles went for a walk and they told me to stay here in case you woke up and now you're awake! You've been asleep for a long time."

"I bet," Erik says. It's nearly eight am. He feels sick.

"It was awful," Ororo says, leaning forward with enthusiasm. "The bad man hit you and then Scott hit him and then Angel saved Scott and then Hank hit him and then he hurt Hank, and there was all sorts of shouting and things were breaking and Charles made Moira take us away and then Moira's friend Mr. Fury came in and Moira told us to hide in the attic and Jean and Scott wouldn't stop crying but I was brave and didn't cry and there was lots of noise and then Charles told us to come down here to make sure we were okay and we were but Moira and Sean have to walk with a stick."

She says it all in nearly one breath and Erik tries to parse it all. No one is missing, near as he can tell. He doesn't think she'd leave that out. He doesn't know who Mr. Fury is or what she means by Moira walking with a stick, but Charles should be by shortly to sort out the details. He can feel Charles' presence, wrapped tight around his mind like Charles is afraid to let go. He needs to see him, though. He needs to see that he's okay.

"It sounds like you've been quite busy," Erik says around the rush of lingering adrenaline. He takes a deep breath and goes unnoticed by Ororo, who's still grinning at him.

"I was a little scared," she admits. "Just a little, though. Hardly at all."

"That's okay," Erik says. "I won't tell anyone."

"Good," Ororo says. "I love you, Erik."

He stops and stares down at her. She's sincere, of course. She's always sincere. And he finds that he's sincere as well when he says, "I love you too, Schatz."

It's a terrible thing, allowing himself these connections, but maybe not a bad thing. Ororo holds her arms out for a hug and he hugs her tightly, kissing the top of her head. She's safe. That's what matters. Charles and the others protected her where he failed, and she'll continue to learn and grow and drive him mad with questions. They all will.

Charles and Moira appear just as Erik is helping Ororo up onto the infirmary bed. He immediately sees what Ororo meant by "walking with a stick." Moira's on a crutch and her foot is wrapped up in a cast. Charles' arm is in a sling and there are scratches scattered about his face, but aside from that he's whole and unbroken and staring at Erik with wide eyes. Moira breaks away from him and limps over to the bed, holding out her arm to Ororo.

"Come 'ere, kiddo," she says. "Let's give Erik and Charles a couple minutes alone, okay?"

"But I just got up here!" Ororo whines.

"I know, baby, but they need some grown-up time," Moira says, and somehow manages to hoist Ororo onto her good hip and use the crutch to awkwardly maneuver out of the room. It may be the awkwardness of adjusting to the crutch, but he thinks he sees Moira smack Charles on the ass with her crutch as she goes.

Charles starts forward and one step turns to two to three and then he's running the last few feet to Erik's bed. He reaches out with his good arm and Erik meets him, pulling him close.

"Oh god," Charles says. "I knew--I mean, I knew--" Erik can hear the tremulous pitch to Charles' voice, the quiver of emotion. "I knew--"

He swallows a sob and Erik holds him more tightly.

"I'm fine," Erik tells him. He has to swallow hard too. He curses the emotion, the weakness, but he doesn't fight it. He presses his face into Charles' hair.

"Shut up," Charles says. "Just--shut up. If you knew--"

His fingers curl together, digging into Erik's back painfully, but it doesn't matter. Erik likes the reminder that they've survived this, that they're still here. Here's Charles in his arms, in one piece, more worried about Erik's relatively minor injury than he is about anything else. He runs his hand from the nape of Charles' neck to the small of his back and marvels at the unparalleled torture of caring for someone.

Charles pulls back, his face red and blotchy, his eyes slick with tears, his mouth set in a firm, unhappy line.

"You slept all night," he says, ignoring the lingering wet squelch in his voice as he attacks Erik's hair, rearranging it into the usual shape. "Right from the fight until now. We dragged you all the way over here and not a peep. All that work of cleaning up left to Moira and me."

"Sorry," Erik says. It stings, though he knows it's all bluster, all Charles trying to hide his own pain and not a true recrimination. "Charles--"

"Luckily the children seemed to sleep well, too," Charles continues, smoothing out the wrinkles in Erik's sheets. "If we'd had to tend to three crying children all night, I'm sure we'd be less eager to forgive you. As it is, I hope you understand how magnanimous we're being in granting you this reprieve."

"Charles," Erik tries again, and reaches up to dry the corners of Charles' eyes. Charles allows it, blinking away the lingering wetness, his smile wry. "I'm fine. I'm glad you are, too."

Charles leans down and kisses him, quickly at first, chastely, and again for longer, a drawn out affirmation.

I'm here, Erik thinks, and he pulls back slowly, opening his eyes and watching as Charles sits on the edge of his bed. He strokes Erik's cheek, just staring at him.

"Please don't do that again," Charles says. "I'm certain my heart couldn't take it."

It's an impossible promise to make, but Erik says, "Don't worry--I won't."

Charles must know how hollow that assurance is, but it lifts some of the tension nonetheless. He settles onto the bed and takes Erik's hand, stroking the knuckles with his thumb.

"So," he says, "I'm sure you'd like to know what's been going on."

"Mm," Erik says. "Darwin, you said?"

Charles' eyes light up. "It's amazing, Erik," he says. "For one, I'm selfishly relieved that there's a rational explanation to the ghost sightings and we can put that to rest. But, most importantly, it shows that Armando's mutation may be near limitless. With sufficient warning, he could be invincible."

"That's...." Erik trails off, turning the ramifications of that over in his head. "Darwin is alive? He survived Shaw's attack?"

"Yes," Charles says. "He somehow broke himself down to the molecular level and dispersed himself to survive the energy blast. He's been trying to reconstitute himself for ages, tying himself to Alex so he wouldn't lose us."

Erik reviews the last week in his mind.

"Every time someone saw the supposed ghost, they were with Alex," Erik says.

"Exactly!" Charles says. "Armando was attempting to regain his form, but couldn't quite manage it until yesterday afternoon. I think the spike of protectiveness at seeing Alex in danger kickstarted the process. He appeared in the middle of the fight and managed to save Alex and helped us take Cain down."

"And he's still here now?" Erik asks.

"Oh, yes," Charles says. "He's sleeping upstairs. Alex is with him, of course."

"Of course," Erik says. So Armando is back. He's not sure he can wrap his mind around that immediately--he's still tired and sore. He boxes it up to inspect later and moves on. "And what of your stepbrother?"

The grip on Erik's hand tightens. Charles' mouth dips downward, but just briefly. Charles, trying to hide his pain. Of course he is, the idiot. Erik should have been there.

"He'd--and don't look at me the way you're going to look at me when I tell you this--" Erik tries in vain to follow. "--but he discovered this...gem. That gave him great strength and power." And now it makes sense. He can't stop the reflexive face, though, and Charles scowls at him. "I'm relaying what I saw in his mind! And Moira's friend has a few things to say about it that might add some legitimacy--"

"Moira's friend?" Erik asks. He thinks back to Ororo's meandering explanation. "Mr. Fury."

"The man she knew as Nate Foley is actually a gentleman named Nick Fury who works for a fledgling international quasi-military, quasi-espionage...well, he works for an organization and he was staking Moira out, it seems, is the long and short of it," Charles explains, rubbing Erik's hand soothingly as his muscles tense. "His goal was recruitment, not elimination, if that's what you're worried about."

How very Charles, to brush those concerns aside, as if the government hasn't already tried to eradicate them once.

"Hush," Charles says in response to Erik's unvoiced objection. "Listen to what I have to say and we'll discuss Mr. Fury and his intentions later. The point is, Cain found himself suddenly with immense power and decided to use it against the person he tasks with ruining his life."

"You," Erik murmurs.

"Yes," Charles says.

"How did he hide here so effectively?" Erik asks. "How did we miss him?" Certain things are obvious now--the open windows, the disturbed rooms, maybe even the recurrence of Charles' nightmares, but if Marko was in the house, Charles should have felt him.

"His helmet and armor were made of the same metal as Shaw's helmet," Charles replies, a grim slant to his mouth.

"The boxes," Erik murmurs. He knew that metal felt familiar. Dammit, he should have made the connection sooner.

"Sent with no addressee, yes," Charles says. "Stopping him was a matter of getting the helmet off. I'm sure the children will want to detail the battle for you themselves, but suffice to say we were able to work out a plan and get the helmet off without too many injuries. Everyone's safe. Sean's broken his leg, Moira's sprained her ankle, Hank has bruised ribs, and you've probably got a nasty concussion, but that's all."

"And you," Erik says. He touches Charles' shoulder carefully, wary of whatever the cause of the sling.

"It's nothing," Charles says. "He got one good hit in on me. I dislocated my shoulder and my collarbone is broken."

Erik's anger spikes, hot and sharp and he tries to tamp it down--Marko is gone, presumably, or Charles wouldn't be here holding his hand and telling him all of this. Marko is gone and his anger will only serve to ruffle Charles, who's sitting close enough that Erik imagines it's nearly impossible to avoid overhearing his thoughts.

"It's not nothing," Erik says. "I happen to enjoy that collarbone."

Charles gives a short laugh and turns Erik's hands over so their fingers can knit together.

"It's bloody annoying," he admits. "Every time I move my shoulder it hurts."

"Then come here and stop moving," Erik says. He shifts over on the bed until there's enough space for Charles to squeeze in next to him, his good shoulder pressed tight against Erik. The bed's definitely too small for both of them, but Erik's been in tighter places with people he's liked much less than Charles.

"This is mad," Charles says, shifting around, but he puts his arm around Erik's shoulders and leans back, finally. "And would you please just lie back? You should be resting."

"I've been resting all night," Erik reminds him, but his head and neck still ache dully and he doesn't take much persuading to rest his head on Charles' shoulder and let Charles pet his hair. The room is quiet, but Erik hardly notices, wrapped as he is in the bright relief and joy of Charles' mind. It pushes the pain and the vague ringing in his ears to the back of his mind. He hadn't realized how tense he's been since he woke up, muscles still coiled for a battle that's already happened without him. He doesn't think he'll believe they're okay until he can see Marko for himself, but if there's one thing he's learned from the past few days, it's that sometimes he just needs to trust Charles.

"Just relax," Charles says. "The danger's past. I promise."

"Stop eavesdropping," Erik mutters, but he doesn't mean it, not really, and he closes his eyes and sighs against Charles' neck.

"Everyone's safe," Charles continues, stroking his hair.

"I shouldn't have been so foolhardy." He hates voicing his failures, would never show them to anyone else but Charles, who understands, who knows everything anyway. "If I had used more caution, I could have helped."

"You're not a failure," Charles tells him. "That's rubbish and you must know it. We're all in this together, you know. You and me and Moira and even the children. I can take care of myself."

"I know you can," Erik says. He opens his eyes and peers up at Charles. It's a strange angle, tight and skewed from being so close. "You're the strongest person I've ever known. But if--" He hesitates, but there's no reason not to say it, not when Charles can probably hear it anyway. "If I can't protect you, all of you, then what else can I offer you?"

"You're being ridiculous," Charles says with overwhelming affection. It washes over Erik, laps up against the shadows of insecurity in his head. He closes his eyes again, and lays his head back on Charles' chest. "You have plenty to offer us. You cook for us, you've taught the children languages and literature and training regimes, you fix things around the house, you soothe nightmares. You play chess with me and argue with me and run errands for me. You love me and you love the children. That's all you can do, my dear. It's all you need to do."

"I should have--"

"Your first instinct was to run headfirst into danger to protect the rest of us," Charles says. "It's a terrible first instinct that I will continue to do my best to change, but it's admirable."

Erik's not sure he can believe that, not yet, his mind still insisting that he should have protected them, that it was his job, but he doesn't want to argue with Charles, and isn't that how these disagreements about his character so frequently get resolved? To avoid the argument, he agrees and in no time at all, he can't help but believe it to be true.

He's spared voicing this revelation by the return of Moira and Ororo carrying a tray of coffee and juice and toast and fruit.

"Erik!" Ororo says. "You just woke up! You can't go back to sleep!"

"I'm not sleeping," Erik tells her, but when he tries to lift his head, Charles presses him down.

"He's resting," Charles tells her. "He hurt his head and he needs to rest until it's better."

"I do not," Erik mutters, but even he can admit it sounds churlish and he doesn't try to sit up again. Not that he could, with Charles' hand on the top of his head, effectively holding him in place.

"Oh," Ororo says. "We brought you breakfast."

"That's fine," Charles says. "Why don't you come sit with us and eat some, hm?"

"Can I sit on the bed with you?" she asks, already setting the tray carefully on the side table and climbing up onto the chair.

"If you're very careful," Charles says.

They're squished enough as it is, but Erik's too tired to contradict Charles and too whipped to contradict Ororo. She manages to squeeze in, resting mostly on top of Erik and taking obvious care to avoid Charles' wrapped arm. Moira waits until she's settled, then hands her a plate of toast.

"Make sure Erik eats that," Moira says.

"I will!" Ororo promises.

"Then I'll leave you three to play happy families," Moira says. To Ororo she says, "Take good care of them, munchkin."

"Let us know when Mr. Fury arrives?" Charles asks.

Something dark flickers across Moira's face.

"Sure thing," she says. "I'm going to go check in on the other kids."

Erik listens to the uneven thumping of her footsteps and the crutch as she leaves, closing his eyes again. They're fine. Everything's fine. Everything's going to be fine.

"Don't go back to sleep yet!" Ororo warns him. "You need to eat toast first! Moira said!"

"Moira's not the boss of me," Erik replies, even as he picks up a triangle of toast from the plate.

"Eat the toast, love," Charles says, and Charles isn't the boss of him either, not precisely, but he takes a bite anyway and pretends he isn't warmed by the web of appreciation and affection that washes over the whole room as he does so.

***

Moira hobbles to the kitchen and finds Angel staring at the contents of the cupboards sleepily.

"I'll make coffee," she says to Moira without looking away. "I feel like I could sleep for another week."

"Me too," Moira admits. It's a half-truth. She's still exhausted, but there are unanswered questions and her brain will stay wired until the whole thing has been put to rest. "Why don't you go back to sleep?"

"Because everyone will be up and looking for breakfast soon," Angel says. "I'm the only one who didn't get injured and whose boyfriend didn't come back from the dead and can make breakfast without burning down the house and who's over the age of twelve, so I might as well pitch in where I can."

Moira wonders if Angel is going to keep spending her days trying to make up for abandoning them to go with Shaw. She hopes not. Maybe they should have a talk about that once things settle down some.

"Good plan," Moira says. "Charles and Erik and Ororo are up and in the infirmary. We made some toast and juice for Erik, but as long as he doesn't pass out again, he'll probably want something more substantial eventually."

"Good to know," Angel says. "I think the only other person awake is Alex. He won't leave Darwin, though, so we probably won't be seeing him for a while."

The poor kid probably got as much sleep as Charles did, if he slept at all. He's been living with a lot more guilt than Charles and without the constant mental reassurance that Darwin is fine, just asleep.

"I'm going to go stick my head in there and make sure he's okay," she tells Angel. "I'll be right back."

It's not the loose ends she needs tied up, but it's a distraction. The stairs are a distraction in and of themselves, much harder to ascend than they were to descend this morning. By the time she reaches Alex's room, she's forgotten Fury for the time being, focused instead on not keeling over and wondering if she'll be able to lure Alex away for a nap.

She doubts it. Alex is sitting next to the bed where Darwin has been propped up, leaning forward on his elbows. He looks like he's been there all night.

"You know," she says softly, "Angel's making breakfast if you want to go downstairs and get something to eat. I can stay here for a few minutes."

"I'm not hungry," Alex says without looking up. She knows better than to tell him that Darwin won't disappear if he looks away.

"I'll make sure he doesn't go anywhere," she says.

"It's not that," Alex says. He looks up, just briefly, his expression still grim and set. "I just...need to be here when he wakes up. I need to be here."

She pulls the chair over from the desk and sits down on the other side of the bed. She watches Alex watch Darwin and thinks about the grief she carried from Joe. She hadn't even been there. She was home making dinner when he lost control of his car and she still carried so much guilt she sometimes couldn't breathe. She can't imagine being in the same room, thinking she was the cause of his death. Charles thinks that Erik has more in common with Alex, that Erik can relate to him better.

Erik may be able to relate to him better than Charles can, but Moira thinks she may have Erik beat. The guilt, she knows, isn't going to go away. There's no switch. Just because Armando is alive doesn't mean Alex knows what to do with all of those feelings.

"I don't know you very well," she says to Alex. He looks up at her, startled, and doesn't say anything. "No, it's fine. There's a divide between the grown-ups and the kids and I know that even though you hate that we call you all kids, you prefer spending time with each other to spending time with us. And we never really had any one on one time, I didn't train you and by the time you showed up in Virginia, I was neck-deep in research on Shaw."

"Yeah?" Alex says. "And?"

"And I'm going to tell you something about me right now," she says. "When I was...a few years older than you are now, I guess, I got married. And six months later, my husband died."

There's a blank look on Alex's face that morphs into something searingly painful. Moira recognizes his grief; she saw it in the mirror for years. She still sees it in the mirror sometimes. There are mornings she stands at the sink and thinks, What happened to my life? How can I ever be happy?

The feelings fade. She stands for a moment or two and blinks back tears and remembers that things aren't as bad as all of that. She gets dressed and comes downstairs and goes about her day without comment or deviation from her routine. But the pain is there. It never goes away.

"I'm...really sorry," Alex says. "That sucks."

"It did," Moira says. "It does."

Alex looks back down at Darwin before he asks, "Why did you tell me that?"

Moira fills her lungs and then breathes out slowly.

"Because," she finally says, "I know that it's awful. And that the pain never really goes away. And I can't imagine--if Joe walked through that door today and said, 'It's a miracle! I'm back! Let's pick up where we left off!' I would be--I can't explain how happy I'd be to see him. But I can't imagine those feelings, that pain and all of it, would go away. And I think I would still feel terrible, sometimes, the way I sometimes feel terrible now. And I think that maybe Charles and Erik and Raven and Sean would look at me funny for being sad or angry or heartbroken over it."

Alex's eyes flick up and then settle back on Darwin.

"Yeah?" he asks.

"Yeah," Moira says.

Alex licks his lips, hesitates, and then says, very quietly, "Thanks."

Message received, then.

"No problem," she says.

"She's a smart lady."

Alex visibly starts. He grabs one of Darwin's hands, just as his eyes open up.

"You should listen to her," Darwin continues, grinning up at Alex and blinking sleepily.

"Hey," Alex says. His voice breaks on the single syllable and Moira thinks it's maybe time to go get some more coffee.

"Hey," Darwin says. "I told you. I'm back. I'm fine."

"I know," Alex says, and the waterworks are definitely incoming. Moira gets up as quietly as she can on the crutch and backs out of the room and out into the hallway.

It's already been a hell of a day.

"Hey, Moira?" Angel calls from the bottom of the stairs.

Moira shakes her head clear.

"What's up?" she calls down.

"Just, uh--that guy, from last night? Your..."

Shit.

"Yeah?" she asks, and hope it doesn't sound as weary as she feels.

"He's here," Angel says. "Uh, I had him wait in the library. I was going to get Charles, but he asked for you."

Shit.

"Thanks, Angel," Moira says. "I'll be down in a minute."

Fury is waiting in the library when Moira finally makes it downstairs. She fleetingly worries that her hair is a mess before reminding herself that there's no need to impress this man. She doesn't care what he thinks of her. Really.

"Colonel," she says as smoothly as she can manage, limping as she is. "I assume you returned the truck. Why don't you have a seat and I'll go get Charles for you?"

"I don't want to talk to Charles just yet," Fury says. "I was hoping you were up for that conversation now."

For a moment, Moira considers turning and leaving. She could go get Charles, tell him Fury was here to see him, and hide in her room until he left. It would be totally immature and completely unfair, but she gets a sharp burst of satisfaction in imagining it.

She doesn't walk away. She enters the library and sits in the armchair across from Fury. She has some manners. And, while she's not happy about the misdirection, not pleased that he thought she was nothing more than a pawn in his search for mutant allies, there's a part of her that was permanently indoctrinated by certain parts of her CIA training. There's the mission, and then there's everything else. She can, distantly, begrudgingly, accept that. She doesn't like it, but she understands.

"Fine," she says. "Let's have a conversation, Colonel."

"I've studied your files, Agent MacTaggert," Fury says.

"You said," Moira says shortly. "That's how you knew we were even here."

"No," he says. "I mean, I studied your files." She frowns.

"To...find me?" she asks.

"At first," he says. "As I said, the CIA was quick to brush you off, but we knew you were the last link to the mutant case. I started going over all of your old files for a clue and you weren't what I was expecting. You're extremely competent, a fantastic tactician, level-headed, cool under pressure, loyal, and brilliant. You're good on your feet. You have extremely high cognitive and physical scores. I know what was keeping the CIA from pushing you further up the ladder, and what I'm saying is that you won't have that problem at SHIELD."

When Moira imagined having a conversation with Fury, she assumed it would be more, 'No hard feelings, right?' than job interview.

"Are you trying to recruit me?" she asks.

"Of course," he says, like he's insulted that she'd even question it. "Xavier wants to open a school, and that's admirable, but you're more than just a school teacher, MacTaggert, even if the students are...gifted. If you come work for me, you can set your agenda. You can work on the mutant case if you want or have your pick of any of our other open cases. Hell, pitch us a new one if you think something out there is worth digging into--there's no government hanging over our shoulder and no roadmap for what we're doing here. We're not exactly a traditional military or enforcement organization."

The conversation is giving Moira whiplash.

"This is...unexpected," she says slowly. "I need time to process this. You're telling me that all that time you were flirting with me, you were scoping out my spy skills?"

"Well...." It's the first time Moira's seen Fury caught off guard. He falters, slightly, and he covers it well, the embarrassment fading into the self-assured-bordering-on-smug smile that he wears as default. "Not entirely. Honestly, I was never supposed to engage. I was flirting with you to flirt with you. I wasn't lying when I said you were a knockout."

"You lied to me," she reminds him. "You can't just charm me back into forgiving you."

"If I remember correctly, you lied to me too," he replies. "Mary McDonald doesn't exist. You're not a sweet young thing from South Carolina taking a teaching job up here to be closer to your brother."

"Yes," she says, and it coalesces, suddenly, a moment of clarity in the face of all her conflicting emotions about this from the start. "But I was lying about myself because I had to. I was never lying about my intentions. You were using me. I was going out with you because I wanted to date you. You were going out with me to get information. There's a pretty distinct difference, there. I was pretty damn conflicted about lying to you."

Moira can see the reply on his lips, arrogant as anything else he's said so far. She recognizes the bravado. You need to have a certain amount of it to get ahead in this business, especially when you're coming from a disadvantage. She imagines attaining the rank of Colonel must have been at least as difficult as her ascent to field agent, if not more so. You learn to have a thick skin. You learn to be ready with a superficial retort, a level of emotionless scorn for your detractors.

He hesitates, though, and it melts away. Just a little. Just enough that she can see a glimpse of the man who shared a bottle of wine with her on a park bench.

"I didn't lie," he finally says. "Not really. Not about anything important. My job, why I was in town...that was bullshit. But the things about my family--the rest of it was me underneath. And it was tough as hell not to ask you about your work, your training, all of the things that grabbed my attention as I paged through your files. It's a trade off--Mary was dating me as a stranger, but I asked Moira on a date in the first place."

She doesn't want to be placated by that. Dammit.

"I need to think about this," she says. "The job offer, I mean." She could be imagining the flash of disappointment that crosses his face, but she has a feeling it's genuine. "It's more than just teaching here--it's like a family. I couldn't leave the kids, not now. And I couldn't abandon Charles and Erik in the middle of the preparations for the school. I have responsibilities here. I have a connection to these kids. And someone needs to strike a balance between Erik's aggression and Charles' pacifism."

Fury, Moira thinks, is not a man used to hearing "no." He smiles ruefully.

"I hope you know I'll be doing everything in my power to sway that answer," he says. "Maybe not right now, but in two, three years? When the school is fully staffed and it's less teaching combat skills and more teaching arithmetic? You'll be swayed."

"Oh yeah?" she says. She tries to tamp down the flirtatious edge unsuccessfully.

"Well," he says. "Someone's gotta be the liaison between the mutants and SHIELD. I don't doubt that Lehnsherr and Xavier are going to come around to an alliance, even if it's not a full recruitment. We've got a lot to offer. If I'm gonna be in the area anyway, it would be pretty damn stupid to miss the chance to convince you as well. Show you what I've got to offer."

"Is that so?" she asks, smiling against her will.

"You're a knockout, Agent MacTaggert," he says again. "And I promise my real first date stories are even more impressive than the ones I told last time."

"I'll be the judge of that," she murmurs, and there's really no other recourse. She has to push herself up on the arm of her chair, lean across the narrow space between them, and kiss him.

It's probably better this way anyway, she reflects as she leans even more precariously forward. The politics behind dating your boss are probably hellish. At least that would be a problem here.

She hears the library door open but she ignores it, fisting her hand in Fury's shirt and dragging him closer.

"Oh!" Charles says. "Oh. I'm terribly sorry, I should have--I hate to be a bother--"

She breaks away just far enough to call out, "Go away, Charles!"

"I didn't mean to interrupt," he says. Fury huffs against her cheek.

"Beat it, Xavier!" he shouts.

"I--umph! Erik!"

"Have fun!" Lehnsherr calls over. "We'll be in the kitchen when you're finished. I'll make coffee. Take your time."

The door swings shut, the heavy wood reverberating and drowning out Charles' quiet protests as Erik drags him away. Moira thanks god for what little good sense Erik Lehnsherr has and then grins at Fury.

"You heard the man," she says. "You think you're up to the challenge, Colonel Fury?"

"Agent MacTaggert," Fury says, "there are quite a few things I'm planning on doing to you that will be damn awkward if you don't start calling me Nick."

"Well then, by all means," Moira says. "Call me Moira."

She hopes Erik and Charles are prepared to finish that coffee without them. It might be a long wait.